


i've got a burning desire for you, baby

by usuallysunny



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Angst, Angst and Romance, Enemies to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gangsters, Guns, Jon Snow is Not a Targaryen, Lana Del Rey Vibes, Organized Crime, Porn With Plot, R Plus L Does Not Equal J, Violence, background - Robb/Margaery, background - Theon/Sansa, mafia, star crossed lovers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-31
Updated: 2020-07-16
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 69,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24477349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/usuallysunny/pseuds/usuallysunny
Summary: Two of the most powerful warring Five Families, the Dragons and the Wolves have hated each other for decades.So when Daenerys notices the gruff northerner across the bar, a cigarette hanging between his teeth, the wolf pin shining on his lapel should send her running.It doesn’t.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Daenerys Targaryen
Comments: 474
Kudos: 1566





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文-普通话 國語 available: [【囧丹/授翻】欲火难耐](https://archiveofourown.org/works/27380206) by [grapeonthewall](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grapeonthewall/pseuds/grapeonthewall)



> So... I'm pretty much new to the Jonerys part of the fandom, so I hope you all like this! I've been listening to Lana Del Rey on repeat - her old school Hollywood glamour vibes really suit this fic - (hence why I changed the title, if anyone noticed. Credit to BloodRevenge in the comments for the idea!). 
> 
> Imagine Westeros as a kind of American Mafia setting...

* * *

“Daenerys?” Margaery Tyrell’s melodic voice was lined with irritation, “are you even listening to me?”

Daenerys let out a breath, watching as curls of smoke floated through the misty air. The club was heady, hot and overcrowded, and she could feel beads of sweat forming on the back of her neck. Leaning her elbow against the cool surface of the bar, she rolled her cigarette between her elegant fingers before she took another drag.

“Sorry,” she said, blowing the smoke out again and not sounding apologetic in the slightest, “what were you saying?”

Her friend rolled her eyes, a characteristic smirk pulling at the corner of her mouth.

“I was _saying…_ Oberyn Martell or Joffrey Baratheon?”

Daenerys dragged her bright eyes to her.

“What about them?”

Margaery blinked at her, her mouth opening slightly in disbelief.

“You are _such_ a self-absorbed bitch!” she exclaimed, but she was still smirking and there was little malice in her tone, “I’ve been talking about them for, like, an _hour_.”

Daenerys raised a brow.

“And _I’m_ the self-absorbed one?” she asked dryly.

Margaery laughed, a small musical sound of defeat.

“My father might be arranging a match with one of them,” she repeated what she’d already told her, “I don’t know which one would be more beneficial.”

Daenerys scrunched her nose, her mouth pinching in distaste.

“Joffrey is a cunt,” she said bluntly, “and Oberyn is old.”

“He’s not _that_ old,” her friend drawled, “and he’s rather charming. Your assessment of _Joffrey_ , I agree with… but the Baratheons are irresistibly powerful.”

“My brother wouldn’t like it,” Daenerys warned — because he wouldn’t.

There was nothing a Dragon hated more than a Stag.

It was the biggest rivalry within the Five Families, Targaryen versus Baratheon. The war had started decades before, when her elder brother Rhaegar had stolen Robert Baratheon’s fiancé.

They were both dead now — a bullet from Robert’s gun lodged in her brother’s chest and Lyanna Stark bleeding out on her birthing bed — but with new factions and rivalries, the whole of Westeros was still paying the price.

“The Tyrells are impartial, you know that... and Viserys would get over it,” Margaery rolled her eyes, “he has for more pressing things to worry about.”

That was true. With her father dead only a fortnight, his throne still warm, her brother was finding his feet as the head of the family. A part of her suspected he never would. The dragon’s blood raged too hot in his veins, wild and uncontrollable, and time had turned him into someone she no longer recognised.

They said their father had gone mad towards the end, his mind twisted and rife with paranoia, and Daenerys saw the same fate for her cruel brother.

“You said it yourself, the Tyrells are impartial,” Daenerys started, taking another drag of her cigarette and laughing softly when Margaery waved the cloud of smoke away, “you are free to marry whoever you wish. That makes you lucky.”

“It also makes me weak,” Margaery sniffed, “an alliance with a powerful family could further the Tyrell’s cause. I think _you’re_ the lucky one, even if you do like slumming it.”

Her brow was arched, a sly grin curling her lips, and Daenerys straightened her back defensively.

She was referencing the brief fling she had with a man named Daario, a waiter from down south who had a name that meant nothing, and not a penny to it. She could have been talking about Missandei too, one of her best friends from college, a foreign girl who knew nothing of Westeros and its politics, drenched in blood.

She still saw Missandei now and then, but her father had sent Daario away as soon as he found out about the affair.

She didn’t know where he was — perhaps somewhere across the Narrow Sea, the same waters that had swept her brother’s body away.

She didn’t know if he was even alive — and she didn’t like to think about it, guilt and dread swirling in the pit of her stomach.

“Don’t be a bitch, Margaery.”

Margaery laughed, batting her words away with a delicate wave of her hand.

As Daenerys turned her back to stub out her finished cigarette and grab her nearly empty martini, Margaery let out a little gasp.

“I think I’ve found a more desirable match than Oberyn _or_ Joffrey,” she breathed, her voice tinged with a mixture of desire and awe. Daenerys fought the urge to roll her eyes, used as she was to her friend’s dramatics, and she turned around to follow her line of sight.

Robb Stark.

He was the eldest child of Ned Stark, head of the most powerful family in the North, and they called him the Young Wolf.

He was leaning against the other bar on the opposite side of the room, his finger trailing around the edge of his whiskey glass.

She recognised him from his distinctive auburn curls, laying in a messy mop on the top of his head. He had stubble to match, lining a jaw that was square and sharp, and Daenerys had to admit – he was more handsome than Oberyn and Joffrey combined.

And perhaps even more dangerous.

Her eyes were drawn to the men either side of him.

Her paranoid father had littered the walls of his study with black and white polaroids of his enemies. In the moment, Daenerys combed through the grainy photographs, taken by Targaryen spies and always at a distance, and she tried to place the other men.

The one on his right was the Stark’s ward, Theon Greyjoy, heir to the Iron Islands, but she wasn’t interested in him.

Her eyes were drawn instead to the dark haired man on his other side, more specifically to his full mouth as he struck up a cigarette and blew a ring of smoke.

She was shocked at her almost violent reaction to him, a strange heat stirring in the pit of her stomach and crawling over her skin.

He was probably the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, with inky curls half tied back with a leather band. It exposed a strong jawline to rival his brother’s and even through the smoke and from a distance, she could see the darkness of his eyes. Pulling his hair back also laid bare the faint scar that ran from his brow to below his eye, somehow making him more attractive, not less.

The light glinted off the wolf pin on the lapel of his expensive suit — like an omen, an ominous warning that screamed _stay away._

Robb was laughing at something he said, leaned in close, and the trust and bond between them was clear.

Daenerys fought to remember his name before it sparked through her mind.

Jon Stark — no, that wasn’t right.

_Snow._

Ned Stark’s bastard.

_The White Wolf._

“The Starks…” Margaery was speaking again, her tone lofty as she arched a perfect brow, “what are they doing this far south?”

Daenerys finished her drink, grateful for the burn as it scorched down her throat.

“Let’s find out.”

She slid off the bar stool, steady on her sky high heels. She tugged at the hem of her black cocktail dress, rolling her eyes when Margaery tugged her back.

“Are you crazy?” she gaped, “I was joking. Your brother will kill you if he catches you with a Wolf.”

“Viserys isn’t here.”

“His spies are everywhere.”

“It’s just a _hello,_ ” Daenerys insisted, “aren’t you the one always telling me to live a little?”

Margaery’s lips pursed, her brows drawing into a frown.

Daenerys rolled her eyes again and squeezed her hands, pulling her off the stool.

She walked over to them – to _him_ – drawn like a dark magnet.

Robb Stark’s brow arched as they reached them, his eyes flickering over Margaery in particular.

He tipped his chin, a sign of respect, and Daenerys clasped her hands in-front of her as Margaery spoke.

“Gentlemen,” she said smoothly, “welcome to our city. I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure?”

She extended a dainty hand, her smile crinkling the corners of her eyes as Robb took it. He bent slightly as he placed a kiss on the back of it, his mouth lingering for a beat too long.

“Ladies,” his voice was low and husky and deliciously northern. Daenerys swore she even saw Margaery shudder.

Theon Greyjoy smirked as he took Daenerys’ hand, his dark eyes shining. She knew of his reputation and she wasn’t impressed, taking her hand back too quickly to be polite.

Jon Snow was suspiciously quiet.

He barely gave her a second glance as he turned back to his whiskey, clasping the glass loosely as his half-burned cigarette hung between his middle and forefinger.

She was almost offended. 

Daenerys Targaryen was a beautiful woman, and a powerful one beyond that.

She was unused to being ignored, and she decided she wouldn’t allow it. She would demand his attention.

She cleared her throat, revelling in the way it made his dark eyes drag to her, his brow arching in curiosity.

He leaned back against the bar, his steel grey eyes unapologetic as they flickered over her, and she fought the urge to shiver.

The air was white hot, thrumming between them like a living thing, as he took her in.

It rattled her, but she fought not to show it.

She fought to tether herself back to the world as he took another drag of his cigarette, keeping her eyes as he casually blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“May I?” she asked, her eyes settling pointedly on his cigarette. 

He stared at her for a moment before he placed the cigarette between his teeth. There was a flash of white as it hung there and he reached behind him into his back pocket. She kept her eyes on his unbearably pretty mouth and she wondered how he would taste, like whiskey and smoke. He pulled the pack out and opened it, extending it to her as she slowly pulled one out.

She held it between her teeth and watched him as he pulled a lighter out next. He flicked it open, the sound penetrating the silence, and brought the flame to the end.

She lifted her hands around it, not breaking eye contact, and something seemed to ignite between them at the same time – something intense and heady and _new._

He clicked the lighter shut and pulled away but _still_ , her hands trembled.

“I’m—”

“I know who you are.”

He interrupted her, his voice a gruff northern brogue, and she stiffened.

She narrowed her eyes, fighting to get back on top.

“As I know you,” she drawled, “Jon Snow.”

His mouth quirked, his eyes flickering over her face again. 

“What is it father always says about Targaryens?” he asked Theon next to him, Robb now deep in conversation with Margaery.

Theon smirked, his expression close to a leer as he glanced over her.

“A Dragon cannot be trusted.”

Daenerys lifted her chin stubbornly, the fire in her blood stirring.

“That’s rich coming from a Wolf,” she took a step closer, “an _animal_ who toys with its prey before ripping it apart. From what I’ve heard about you — the _White Wolf —_ you’re no exception. Or are you going to tell me you’re harmless? That there’s not a knife in your boot,” her pale eyes flickered down to prove her point, “a Smith and Wesson under that fancy jacket?”

His mouth twitched under his beard as he took a drag and blew the smoke away from her.

“It’s a Colt 45, actually.”

She caught a glimpse of said weapon when he leant behind him to stub his cigarette out and pick his whiskey glass up. The sight of it, powerful and deadly, made her shiver, but not for the reasons it should. Not for the first time, she wondered if being part of this world had ruined her, if she would ever be able to settle for an ordinary man, a _sensible_ man, one whose hands hadn’t been covered in blood.

She knew one thing for certain; Jon Snow was no ordinary man.

But she wanted him.

She wanted to ruffle those stoic feathers. She wanted to slip this tight black dress down her body and watch desire replace that stony expression. He wasn’t particularly tall, but he wasn’t small either, and his well-muscled body was obvious under that perfectly tailored suit. He looked strong, cool and calm and collected. The dragon’s blood was hot in her veins. It made her quick to anger, easily impulsive.

They said northerners were made of ice, and she got the impression he could keep up.

It was a nice fantasy.

“Have you ever used it?” she asked against her better judgement.

Something flickered over his face then, dark and brooding.

“Once or twice.”

 _On his enemies,_ she reminded herself, _your family being one of them._

“It’s warm down here for a northern boy,” she quirked a brow, leaning across him to flick some cigarette ash in the crystal tray on the bar. She could feel his heat, the strength emanating from his body, the smell of him – all woodsy cologne and whiskey and smoke.

“Aye, it is,” he agreed, tipping his chin in acknowledgement as Theon muttered that he was bored and went to follow a redhead that had caught his attention.

“Then why are you here?”

The corner of Jon’s mouth quirked as he took a sip of whiskey.

“Business,” he said curtly.

“What business?”

“It wouldn’t be very smart of me to divulge my family’s secrets to our biggest enemy now, would it?”

“No, I suppose not,” she conceded, “is that what I am then, your enemy?”

His dark eyes drifted over her, searching for a reaction.

“Does that offend you?”

“No,” she shrugged, “but it seems a shame… to punish a sister for her brother’s sins. After-all, it wasn’t me who stole your aunt — and anyway, can you steal that which is freely given?”

She caught the slight flare of his nostrils as his anger spiked.

“Freely given, was it?”

There were rumours that Rhaegar had raped Lyanna, rumours that Daenerys refused to listen to. She hadn’t known him, not really, but the ones she trusted had said he was kind.

“He didn’t rape her.”

Jon clicked his tongue, giving a little sigh as he put his glass down on the bar. 

“I guess we’ll never know.”

She arched a brow, stubbing the cigarette out in the ashtray.

Then she climbed onto a barstool, not missing how his eyes lingered a beat too long as her dress rode up her tanned thigh. It gave her a little thrill, the confirmation that he was not a wolf, but a man after-all, with desires like any other. He followed suit, taking the seat next to her.

“Aren’t you going to buy me a drink?” she asked, her voice lowering a note.

His brows climbed to his hairline, seemingly surprised by her brazenness.

“Of course,” he recovered quickly, beckoning the barman over, “how very ungentlemanly of me.”

His voice was tinged with amusement, as though he found the concept very funny indeed. A smirk pulled at her own lips. He wasn’t a gentleman. He was a member of organised crime, a thief, a liar, a killer.

She didn’t care.

That was her world too.

“White or red?” he asked, taking her for a wine girl.

Her red lips twitched and she took his whiskey glass instead. She felt the heat of his curious eyes on her as he arched a brow and watched her take a gulp. She found she quite liked the burn, the heat it left behind, and she smiled seductively at the barman.

“I’ll have one of these,” she practically purred, pursing her lips at the way the young man faltered before his cheeks burst into heat and he stuttered a reply.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed Jon's mouth quirking as he tried to hide a smile.

“What?” she asked, gifting the drink back to him.

He shook his head, his finger absentmindedly trailing the rim of the glass, tracing the mark her lipstick had left behind. She wanted to see that mark on his own lips, his neck, his cock…

She shook herself out of it. 

“Nothing,” he murmured.

She narrowed her eyes, surprised and somewhat irritated by his reticence.

She was used to southern men, the way they spun honey tales and promised her the world, told her that she was beautiful and strong and wild. Northern men, it seemed, were different — and Jon Snow was infuriatingly hard to read.

The barman came back quickly, eager to please, and Jon reached into his jacket pocket to pull out his wallet. As he did so, she caught a glimpse of the gun at his hip again, and her breath caught in her throat. He threw some bills down and the bartender placed the glass on a blood red napkin.

“Thank you,” she murmured, lifting her glass for him to touch his own against it.

They drank at the same time, their eyes connecting, molten grey on pale blue.

The atmosphere blistered between them again, hot and intense, and she swore the heat of his gaze sparked straight to her thighs. She shifted on the barstool, feeling them slightly slick as she rubbed them together.

This was wrong. Dangerous and wrong. It could destroy them both, history repeating itself.

A Dragon falling for a Wolf and bringing the world down with them.

But a fuck wasn’t love, she reminded herself. She could have him, just for a night, quench her thirst, and let him crawl back to the North. Her loyalty will have been tested, stretched to its limit, but not broken.

Her manicured nails tapped against the side of the glass, drawing attention to the ring on her finger. It held her family sigil, a silver dragon carved intricately into the metal, and his dark eyes focused on it.

“My father would probably have a heart attack if he knew I was sharing a drink with you.”

His tone was amused, his words were anything but, and she chuckled under her breath.

“Mine will be turning in his grave.”

“I would say I’m sorry, but…” his voice trailed off.

She shook her head.

“My father was not a good man,” her voice was quieter then, her chest constricting painfully, “especially towards the end. I know he murdered your grandfather and your uncle. I’d like to apologise.”

Jon’s brow furrowed.

"It’s not your fault,” he said, strangely gentle, “and are any of us?”

"Any of us what?”

“Good men.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, her eyes drifting over his impassive expression. She knew what he meant. They were gangsters, thugs and criminals, their world drenched in blood and deceit.

And _yet_ —

“Maybe you aren’t good,” she murmured, “maybe I’m not either — but I’m still here.”

He quirked a dark brow.

“Why are you?”

Her stare was obvious, tired as she was of this little game.

“You know why.”

“Aye, you think so?”

He sounded almost amused, but his eyes were shining a little darker.

She hummed, her fingers stretching out until they touched his own. She brushed them against his, shocked at the jolt of electricity that passed through her.

“I want to see if you really are a wolf,” she murmured, alcohol and desire swirling through her blood and making her bold, “I want to hear you howl.”

He was cool and sullen, but his gaze flickered slightly, and she knew he felt it too.

“It’s not a good idea,” he said flatly, but his eyes were fixed to her cherry mouth.

“It’s not,” she agreed, “but you’re going to do it anyway.” 

* * *

They stumbled towards the door of his hotel room, all tongues, teeth, heat and passion.

He grunted against her mouth as he tried to slot the key card into the lock, the click as it opened penetrating the silence. With one hand tied up in her loose curls, his other flew to the handle behind him, pushing the door open.

He slammed it shut again with his foot, his hand scrambling for the light. Once he found it, the room was flooded, illuminating his face when he pulled back.

He kicked his shoes off, she left hers on, and she took a moment to just look at him.

 _Gods,_ he was beautiful.

She had known handsome men, had wrapped many of them around her finger, but he was a cut above the rest. Even more attractive to her was that he didn’t even seem to know it, or he didn’t care.

He walked her backwards, pushing her against the wall. She gasped into his mouth, her tongue sweeping across his bottom lip and demanding entrance. He yielded beneath her, their tongues tangling, and she felt liquid heat build in the pit of her stomach.

He kissed like a conqueror, plundering her mouth and taking what he wanted. But she was a conqueror too, no timid little mouse, and she pushed right back. 

She broke away, her breasts pushing against the fabric of her dress as she panted. His eyes were drawn to them, his pupils dilating, and she brought his attention back to her with a tug of his hair. There was a flash of white as he hissed, his pretty mouth red and swollen.

“Fuck me,” she muttered, “or kill me. We both know you have to choose.”

He snarled like the wolf they said he was — and his hands were hot on her waist.

“Have you ever been fucked, Daenerys Targaryen?”

It was the first time he said her name, all low northern gruff, and heat sparked between her thighs.

She tried to pretend, to hide how much he was affecting her.

“Of course I’ve had sex.”

He leaned in and she felt the grit of his stubble, the curve of his mouth against her cheek.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Her toes curled in her expensive heels, her hips rolling against him, and he took her mouth again. His mouth slanted over hers roughly, his hands pushing the material of her dress until it pooled at the tops of her thighs. She spread them wider and he stepped between them, hooking a hand under her right knee until she curled it around his waist.

He pushed into her then and she felt him, pressing hot and hard against her clothed cunt.

“Aye, I’ll fuck you,” he promised darkly, his mouth at her ear, “I’ll make you forget about Dragons and Wolves and everything else that doesn’t matter. I’ll make you forget about every southern boy who ever smiled at you, the ones who couldn’t handle you — and I’ll make you come so hard, you’ll have to name me king.”

She laughed breathlessly, admiring his spirit. But she was a queen in her own right — and she wouldn’t bend.

“We’ll see,” she whispered against his mouth.

He smiled a smile that hinted at dark intent — and then she kissed him again.

She arched against the wall, his fingers hot as they dug into the skin of her thigh. Deep down, she knew she was better than this. Better than a quick fuck against the wall with a man she should hate, but with his hot mouth trailing across her jaw, she couldn’t bring herself to care.

He left open mouthed kisses down the length of her flushed skin, his hips gently thrusting into her. His clothed cock pressed against her soaking panties and she was sure he could feel it, seeping onto his pants.

As though he could read her mind, his hand went between her thighs, and he shoved the fabric aside.

“Fuck,” he bit out at the feel of her, dripping against his fingers, “do you get this wet for every man you hate?”

She moaned in reply, her head tipping back as he spread her slickness with two fingers before plunging them inside.

“Harder,” she whimpered, angling her hips toward him, clenching tight around his fingers.

She could hear the sounds, lewd and slick and loud, as he fucked her with them, and heat rose in her cheeks.

“It’s alright — we’ve got time, sweetheart,” he murmured huskily, the pet name making her wetter still, “you’re going to come on my fingers…”

“Then my mouth,” he added, trailing his lips from her neck to her ear, “and then my cock.”

“Fuck,” she groaned, a sob of pleasure catching in her throat as his thumb started to circle her clit.

“Bad girl,” he tutted, kissing her again and swallowing her cry as she came.

She supposed she wasn’t surprised at how quickly it had taken her; she’d been wet from the moment she sat down next to him. But she was surprised at how strong it was, crashing over her with the force of the waves at Shipbreaker Bay.

He pulled his fingers out of her, pushing the soaked fabric back over her and giving her clothed pussy a little pat.

She bucked against it, over sensitive, and moaned again when he pushed the pads of his fingers against her lips.

She opened for him, sucking his fingers and tasting herself on them, tangy and tart. He practically groaned at the sight, his fingers leaving a trail of spit on her skin when he removed them and held her face instead.

He kissed her as his hand trailed down, his fingers splaying over the hollow of her throat.

She stood back down on shaky legs and pushed his jacket off his shoulders. It fluttered to the floor, the expensive material creasing, and when she saw his gun again, a chill ran through her. 

She had been so swept away by him, she had allowed herself to forget he was dangerous. She was a Targaryen, his sworn enemy, and she’d given herself to him so willingly.

But then he was removing the gun and handing it over to her.

“You can hold onto it if you want.”

She swallowed, her fingers trailing across the smooth, cool metal, before she took a leap of faith and placed it on the coffee table next to them.

Her fingers flew to the buttons of his shirt. He kissed her as she unbuttoned them, pushing the material off his shoulders to join his jacket.

His chest was well muscled and scarred, angry half-crescents curving over his skin. Her hands drifted over each one, oddly curious, her fingers trailing over the map of his life. His abs twitched under her touch, his Adam’s apple bobbing as her hands settled on the cool steel of his belt buckle.

She held his gaze as she unbuckled it, watching his pupils blow to black.

The clink as it fell to the floor was deafening.

He watched her then as she shimmied out of her dress, standing in just her panties and heels. His tongue peeked out to wet his lips and then that mouth was at her breast. He sucked at her nipple, clasping it between his teeth and giving a little tug. She arched her back violently, her hand flying to his head and anchoring him to her breast. When she yanked at the band tying it back, he jerked his head away, squeezing her breast with a hand instead.

“Leave it,” he ordered, “I want it out of my face when you fuck my mouth.”

Lust snapped at her heels.

“On your knees, then.”

She pushed right back, gave an order of her own, and his mouth twitched under his beard as he obeyed.

It gave her a thrill, a man as deadly and powerful as him, on his knees for her.

He pushed her thighs apart, nudging at her clothed clit with his nose. He opened his mouth and sucked the soaked fabric, her hips arching against his face. He mouthed at her for a few moments, licking at her through the material, before he used a finger to push it aside and licked a hot stripe up her slit.

“Fuck,” Daenerys groaned, her thighs trembling around his head.

He continued licking her as his fingers hooked into the waistband of her panties. He pulled away for a moment while he dragged them down her smooth legs and she stepped out of them, kicking them away with a heel. He spread her with two fingers, nibbling at her clit, and her toes curled again.

She braced herself against the wall as he hooked a leg over his shoulder and returned to his meal. He was all wolf then, his grunts muffled by her cunt, and a spark of desire travelled the length of her spine. One hand curled into the wall as the other gripped at his hair, so tight it made him hiss.

He paid attention to her clit, his mouth slick and hot and wet, and then he stiffened his tongue and began to fuck her with it.

“Jon,” she choked his name for the first time as she began to ride his face, making his tongue slip out of her. He kept still as she rode him, soaking his nose and his mouth, her juices dribbling into his beard. She was unapologetic about her pleasure, a pressure building in the pit of her stomach.

He groaned into her cunt as she ground against him. He slipped his hands under her to her arse, rocking her against his face and keeping her fused to his mouth as he shook his head back and forth. With one more flick of his wet tongue, the coil inside her snapped, her orgasm firing through her with a force she’d never felt before. She trembled as he slowed down, lapping at her lazily as she rode it out.

Shuddering in the afterglow, she barely registered him wiping his mouth on the inside of her thigh.

She tugged him up, crashing her lips to his in a fierce kiss.

She tasted herself again, sweet and heady on his tongue, and when he pulled back, his eyes were black.

She flicked the button of his pants open and tugged them down his legs, taking his underwear with them. Then he was naked, his hard cock curving towards his stomach, and her mouth practically watered.

He was a perfect size, pre cum already beading on the tip.

She burned under the realisation that he’d gotten that hard while eating her out and she covered her pounding heart with her palm.

He was taking her in, an unreadable expression on his face.

“You’re stunning,” he said finally — not a compliment meant to flatter or praise, but merely a fact.

“You seem surprised,” she quipped, “northern girls are different?”

“Aye, different,” he scoffed a little incredulously, his dark eyes flickering over her naked form, “less.”

She smiled.

He didn’t say much, but he said _some,_ and it was enough.

“Condom,” she muttered suddenly because they really didn’t need to complicate things further. The notion of a baby with his hair and her eyes sparked through her mind before she pushed it down, boxing it away with all her dreams of things that could never be.

He bent down, reaching into his suit jacket to find his wallet. He pulled a foil packet out, ripped it open with his teeth, and rolled the condom onto his cock.

She kissed him again as his hands went to her waist, hoisting her up. She wrapped her legs around him, whimpering again at the feel of his hard cock pressing insistently against her quivering entrance. He lined himself up, giving her clit a few strokes with the head, before he pushed inside her with a powerful thrust.

She gasped, the world stilling for a moment.

 _Oh, this was a bad idea,_ the thought sparked through her mind, because it was _perfect._

He covered her mouth with his, licking inside, their tongues mimicking the movement of their hips below. He pulled out almost entirely, only to thrust back in to the hilt. His fingers dug into the soft flesh of her hips, undoubtedly leaving finger-shaped bruises she would blush at in the morning, and she begged for harder, faster, _more._

“You feel so good,” she moaned as his mouth found her collarbone and he sucked a bloom into her skin.

“Perfect,” he grunted in reply, a raspy murmur into the hollow of her throat.

Her eyes and throat burned as he fucked her faster, the slick sounds of their flesh slapping filling the air. His fingers curled around her wrists, bringing them up until he held them against the wall, either side of her head.

“Harder,” she sobbed, “fuck me harder.”

He growled his approval as he pounded her against the wall.

“Like that?”

“Yes,” she moaned, her hips bucking as she met him thrust for thrust, “ _fuck_ yes, right there.”

One hand left the wall as his thumb travelled between her legs, rubbing her clit in tight circles.

Molten heat pooled in the pit of her stomach, a coil about to snap.

“Come for me,” he demanded, her blood fire, his words a spark, “come on my cock.”

Pleasure rushed through her veins for the third time, leaving her shaking and buzzing and exhausted. Her cunt clenched around him, firing off his own orgasm, and he buried his face in her neck and groaned as he spilled inside her.

She held him as he fractured apart — and tried to ignore the strange ache in her chest.

“I can’t believe I invited a Wolf into my bed,” she laughed two rounds later, when they were finally laying down and her hair fanned over his chest. 

Technically it was _his_ bed, or no-one’s bed, but the point still stood and he chuckled lowly.

He planted a kiss on her head.

“Any regrets?” he murmured.

“No,” she replied, “it’s not like it meant anything… just a way to scratch an itch.”

She lifted her head to look at him for reassurance and as her heart clenched tightly, she wondered who she was trying to convince.

His expression was frustratingly unreadable - he reminded her of steel, cool and unbreakable. 

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, sweetheart.”

She slung a leg over him, settling in his lap and wincing slightly at the ache between her thighs. 

She felt his cock twitch in interest and she leaned down, capturing his mouth in a gentle kiss. It was languid, like they had all the time in the world, and with an ache in her chest, she pulled back to sit on his thighs. 

She winced again. She had been well fucked and the soreness was already setting in.

He took her hand, his thumb sweeping across the back of it as he glanced at the ring on her finger again.

He brought it to his mouth and kissed the dragon.

“Where will you go?” she whispered, a sadness settling into her bones for she knew the answer.

He would go home, and so would she, and they would be enemies again.

She spoke again before he could answer.

“Back to the North to plot my family’s demise?” she arched a brow, “that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? To gain allies… you want to kill Viserys.”

He gave a little hum, the pad of his thumb gently swiping across her bottom lip.

“Perhaps not anymore,” he murmured, his head tipping to the side as his dark eyes flickered from her mouth to her eyes and back again. 

“And why is that?”

His mouth twitched but it wasn’t quite a smile.

“It appears I have quite the weakness for his sister.”

She sighed, her eyes fluttering shut as her fingers came up to circle his wrist.

She leaned into his touch and tried to forget.

She never did.

And years later, when her brother was gone and the dynasty fell to her, she would remember that northern wolf and strive for peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Left it open ended because there's a good chance of me dipping back into this world if the mood hits...


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I should fucking kill you for what you did,” he growled as he held her throat, the steel of his rings digging into her flushed skin.
> 
> She smirked, every inch a dragon with fire flashing through her eyes.
> 
> “I bet you say that to all the girls.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You demanded a second chapter - I obeyed 🤷🏼♀️
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this one and I hope you're all keeping safe in these difficult times. Love to you all.

  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys stood outside her brother’s office, lifting her hand only to drop it again in painful indecision.

She didn’t know why he wanted to see her. He liked to avoid her, to pretend she didn’t exist at all. She couldn’t say it particularly bothered her. His moods were erratic, impossible to predict, and it exhausted her to even try. She rolled her shoulders until they clicked and cracked her knuckles.

Then, she prepared herself for the storm and knocked.

“What?”

Viserys yelled through the door, loud and brash, and she rolled her eyes before opening it.

“You wanted to see me,” she said curtly as she closed it behind her with a click.

She noticed Jorah standing by the frame, his jaw clenched tight and his hands clasped behind his back. She gave him a little nod, glad to see him.

He had a soft spot for her — _more_ than a soft spot — and she played on it. She used it for her own gain, moulding him into just the right shape. She wasn’t particularly ashamed of it. She would let him harbour a crush on her if it meant he would be loyal.

 _More fool him,_ she thought, _lusting over a woman young enough to be his daughter_.

Viserys was sitting behind his desk, his hands tented over his mouth. Unmistakable hatred flashed through his eyes at the sight of her but Daenerys stood tall, her back straight.

She hated him too.

He slowly brought his hands down from his mouth, laying his palms flat on the desk.

“You have some explaining to do.”

His voice was cruel, laced with poison, and she knew _exactly_ what he was referring to.

Still, she tipped her chin and sniffed defiantly.

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She felt Jorah stiffen beside her; he knew as well as she did her brother wouldn’t like that answer.

Viserys’ chair — _their father’s chair_ — was excessively garish. It was huge and made of black leather, two golden dragons carved intricately into either arm. He slowly lifted himself from it, the pads of his fingers bending and pressing hard against the wood. Unfurling his scrawny, six foot frame should have made him more domineering. It didn’t.

“Confess,” he hissed.

She clenched her jaw, her own anger flaring. He had always underestimated her. They called her Stormborn, named after the harsh winter gales that had raged on the night of her birth, and he wouldn't break her. 

“To what?”

She remembered a sleeping little boy curled into a ball. She remembered the way he shivered in the cold, despite the ice that ran through his veins. She remembered the surprising weight of him in her arms as she whispered to be brave and handed him to Jorah. She remembered watching the blinking red lights on the Bentley fade into the dark the further they travelled, away from her and back to the North.

“To what you did with the Stark boy.”

She knew he meant Rickon — but her mind flashed to Jon.

Her mouth suddenly felt very dry. It had been more than a year but she could still feel his hands on her. She could feel the bite of his fingers digging into her waist, the scratch of his beard against her inner thigh. She could still taste his mouth, all whiskey and smoke. She could hear the husk of his voice in her ear. No-one had a voice quite like him — no-one before, no-one since — and she found herself chasing that sound.

She straightened her back and reminded herself of the words she had whispered to that little boy.

 _Be brave._

“You took him hostage — and I let him go.”

He took slow, even steps around the desk. When he reached the front, he leaned against it, folding his arms over his chest. It was pure reflex that she stepped back, her shoulder brushing Jorah’s arm behind her.

He stared at her, wild eyes blinking. He nodded, his jaw grinding from side to side, and for a moment, she thought he wasn’t going to react. He looked like he was considering something and he turned his face from her. Then, his hand curled around the crystal tumbler of whiskey on the desk and he hurled it with a furious roar.

She flinched as it narrowly missed her head and shattered on the wall behind her.

The photographs rattled in their frames, their father’s stern eyes glaring down at them.

She realised Jorah’s hand was curled around her elbow protectively when Viserys started shouting.

“Get your fucking hands off her,” he snarled, “it’s not your job to protect her from _me!_ I want her to _explain_ herself!"

Jorah relented, taking a step back, and Daenerys tried to settle her racing heart.

She had felt the sting of the back of his hand across her cheek more times than she could count. She had tasted the sharp, metallic tang of blood as it pooled on her bottom lip. She had watched her reflection in the mirror as she dully covered the purple bruises mottling her skin with concealer. 

A smashed glass was nothing.

“He was just a boy.”

“He was my leverage,” Viserys corrected heatedly, “the Starks stole a _lot_ of money from me. You knew that. They turned allies against me — against _us._ You knew that too. You’re a fucking traitor.”

“I’m not a traitor,” she fired back, the words flying from her tongue, “it was a stupid plan. The Starks are loyal. They love their family. You would have started another war if it went on any longer. It was an escalation we could do without.”

 _The Starks are loyal,_ it was meant as an accusation, a dig, because it made her burn with jealousy. Jon and Robb would kill for their brothers and sisters, it was a fact well known. Viserys didn’t seem to care if she lived or died.

“And I suppose _you’re_ going to get my money back?” he spat, “you’re going to win back the allies they stole from us?”

 _I could,_ the thought swept through her darkly, _I could serve the family better than you. I would do better. I would be better._

“You couldn’t even keep that fucking Rose’s legs shut,” he muttered before she could reply, his voice tinged with disgust as he spoke of Margaery.

“Yes, Margaery is my friend — but we never had the Tyrell’s loyalty,” Daenerys fought the urge to roll her eyes, “she made no promises. You cannot blame her for falling in love.”

While Daenerys had forced herself to turn away from the wolf in her bed, Margaery had thoroughly embraced hers. She had been inseparable from Robb Stark since that night; their wedding was even in a fortnight’s time. _She_ had never slipped from his bed without saying goodbye. She had never stolen one last look at him, eyes drifting over dark curls against white hotel sheets as he slept, and disappeared into the night.

“Just get out of my sight,” Viserys growled, turning his back to her, “I’ll decide what to do with you when I’m back.”

“Back from where?” she couldn’t stop herself from asking.

His eyes flared wildly again.

“Essos — not that it’s any of your business,” he said, “we must look for allies elsewhere. Perhaps I’ll promise you to one of the _savages_ over there. Beat some sense into you.”

She bristled, anger swirling in her gut. She opened her mouth to hurl a bitter reply when she felt the subtle touch of Jorah’s hand on the small of her back. She relented for now, the touch calming her.

She didn’t wait for him to dismiss her — and when she slammed the door, it rattled in its frame.

* * *

“Are you sure this is a good idea, Princess?” Jorah’s gruff voice rang out beside her as they made their way up the gravel path to the church.

She caught him trying to adjust his tie, grimacing as he tugged at it. She smirked, rolling her eyes as she grabbed his shoulders and manoeuvred him slightly off the path. As guests began to walk past them and fill the church, she smoothed the tie in her hand and began to loosen the knot.

“Please don’t call me that,” she said, hating the title of Mafia Princess, royalty in crime, “you know I hate it.”

He didn’t reply but his eyes were predictably focused on her bright red lips.

She finished loosening the tie, adjusting the knot to make it more comfortable, before she gave his chest a gentle pat.

“Margaery’s my friend,” she insisted, “I _have_ to be here. Viserys is overseas, he’s not going to stop me. And you’re here to protect me. Besides, no-one is going to start trouble at a wedding. What sort of monster would do that?”

He still didn’t look sure, his brows pulled into a frown, but she couldn’t focus on that.

Not when Jon Snow was standing to the side, leaning against the wall of the church and filling his lungs with smoke.

The sight of him stirred something to life inside her. She had thought of him often. She had wondered where he was and how he was doing — and now he was right in-front of her, looking calm and strong and wearing a black suit like the night she’d first met him. It briefly occurred to her that she’d never seen him in anything else, only naked, and her cheeks flushed at the thought. His face was just the same, but his dark hair was loose and free from its bun and _damn it,_ he was even more beautiful than she remembered.

She’d hoped she’d become immune.

“Why don’t you go inside?” she murmured to Jorah, “I’m just going to have a cigarette.”

“I shouldn’t leave you.”

Her skin prickled with irrational irritation.

“Five minutes, Jorah,” she pleaded, “I need to breathe.”

He clearly didn’t want to but he acquiesced eventually, giving her a short nod. She waited until he had disappeared inside before she walked over to Jon.

His eyes flashed with recognition when he saw her, something dark sweeping over his expression.

She watched him toss his cigarette on the ground as she approached, stamping it out with the toe of his expensive shoe. Then his arms were crossing over his chest, his brow arching carefully.

When she reached him, he took her elbow, dragging her around the corner to the back of the church and away from prying eyes.

Then he pushed her against the wall, one hand curling into the stone by her head and the other coming up to grip her neck.

She gasped at the feel of his hands on her again, her teeth biting into her bottom lip.

“Hello to you too, Jon Snow.”

She watched a muscle near his ear tick as he clenched the strong line of his jaw.

“I should fucking kill you for what you did,” he growled as he held her throat, the steel of his rings digging into her flushed skin.

She smirked, every inch a dragon with fire flashing through her eyes.

“I bet you say that to all the girls.”

His nostrils flared as his anger burned under his skin, his wild eyes scanning over her face.

“I’m not playing, Daenerys.”

Before, he had called her sweetheart. She still remembered how it sounded on his tongue, how it had made her shudder. He called her a dragon or a _bad girl_ or he called her nothing at all. He rarely said her name. Now, he hurled it like a weapon.

“You seemed to like our games last time,” she fired back.

His top lip curled into a little snarl, twitching slightly under his beard. He cut to the chase. Slightly put out, she realised he had no interest in discussing what had unfolded between them that night. 

“You took my brother,” he said lowly, dangerously.

His voice was a dark, northern brogue and she clenched her thighs together.

Her expression softened slightly. She tilted her head to the side, feeling his fingers twitch around her neck. His grip wasn’t particularly tight or threatening but it was intense, heady and a little intoxicating. 

“No, I didn’t. Viserys did.”

“It’s the same thing.”

“It’s not,” she insisted evenly, “I wouldn’t have let anything happen to him.”

He laughed but there was little humour in it.

“You’re a Targaryen.”

She frowned, her defences kicking in.

“And you’re a Stark,” she said pointedly, just as part of the blood-soaked Five Families as she was, before her brow arched, “or is it Snow? You don’t even know who you are.”

“I don’t hurt kids,” he growled, his tone lined with disgust.

“Neither do I,” she said slowly, pointedly, all signs of humour gone from her voice, “I’m not my brother. I’m not my father. I’m sorry Rickon was taken. That was wrong. I was the one who let him go.”

His hand had loosened during her speech, his fingers slipping until they were splayed across the hollow of her throat. The steel of the ring on his finger — the one carved into the shape of a wolf, matching the dragon on her own — was a cool balm against her burning skin.

“I didn’t know that,” he murmured, calmer now, “we just found him on our doorstep.”

“You didn’t ask.”

“Aye, I didn’t,” he conceded but he didn’t apologise.

“Now…” her pale eyes held his own, “unless you’re going to do something about the hand wrapped around my throat… do you think you could let me go?”

Her gaze dragged pointedly from his eyes to his hand and back again, the air blistering. She let the implication hang heavy between them for a moment before he blinked.

She was almost disappointed.

She let out the breath she didn’t realise she was holding, falling against the wall. The stone was cool against her back, her blood red dress baring her shoulders. Her hair was perfectly curled, half pulled back with a dragon pin and falling in thick waves down her shoulders. The hand he’d had on her throat had slipped to her elbow and he still held it as he took a step back.

His dark eyes flickered from her expensive heels to her face and he let out a low whistle.

“You look nice.”

 _Nice,_ she almost laughed.

Tyrion Lannister, the lustful little imp, would have called her exquisite. Loras Tyrell would have called her spectacular and marvelled at her dress. Oberyn Martell would have told her she was so beautiful, she made the sun and moon pale in comparison, and he would have told her all the wicked things he and Ellaria wanted to do to her. 

Still, Jon Snow thought she looked…. _nice._

These northerners were still very hard to understand.

“Thanks,” she glanced over his tailored suit to his loose curls, “you changed your hair.”

He took his hand off her elbow and ran his fingers through it as though to check.

“Aye, so did you,” he cocks a brow, his hand now going to her locks. He took the end of an icy strand, twirling it around his finger and giving it a little tug, “I like it better this way.”

She had been in a brunette stage the last time she saw him. She’d wanted to distance herself from the silver blonde hair that her family were famed for. She wanted to distance herself from the family completely. But in the months that had followed, free from her father’s tyranny and coming to see her insecure, childish brother for what he really was, she began to embrace her heritage.

Until Viserys married, she would be his heir. Queen of the Targaryen dynasty in all but name. Her brother was reckless, stupid and ill-suited to rule, and she knew it wouldn’t be long until she sat in that dragon-embellished chair.

“You do?”

He nodded.

“We shouldn’t hide who we are,” he murmured, “you look like a Dragon.”

She quirked a brow, her eyes drifting to his mouth.

“Shouldn’t that mean you like it less?”

He didn’t reply but he did drop her hair and the answer was clear.

“Traitor,” she whispered with a smirk pulling at her lips.

They were both traitors — because they didn’t hate each other at all.

* * *

Daenerys sipped at her champagne, smiling gently as Robb and Margaery Stark were presented to the room for the first time.

The ceremony was beautiful, the love in their eyes clear as they spoke their vows, but through it all, Daenerys hardly saw them. Her eyes kept being drawn back to Jon, standing by Robb’s side as his best man, and she knew she was in trouble.

She swore it would just be one night. She couldn’t want him like this. It could destroy everything her family had built. It was tiring too, this push and pull between them. Not only them, but their families. Rhaegar stole Lyanna, so they went to war. Rhaegar was killed, so her father killed Rickard and Brandon Stark in return. Jaime Lannister tried to assassinate him then, so her father took his hand. A heart attack had taken him in the end, probably the stress of so many enemies, and now her brother was making the same mistakes. 

They stole from each other, killed each other, maimed each other — and so it went on and on. _Lannister, Targaryen, Baratheon, Stark, Tyrell_. They were all just spokes on a wheel. This one was on top, then that one was on top, and on and on it span, crushing those on the ground. It all seemed very archaic, very pointless.

Jorah stood beside her, characteristically solemn.

His expression never changed, not even when Margaery rushed over to them and took his face in her hands.

“Come, Sir Jorah!” she used the title she always gave him, finding it very funny indeed, “does not even my _wedding_ put a smile on your face?”

Jorah’s mouth twitched. It was all she was getting.

“Congratulations Margaery.”

Margaery rolled her eyes and smiled, releasing him so she could hug Daenerys.

“Thank you for coming,” she whispered into her ear, “I know you’re surrounded by enemies. I know you must hate the Wolves.”

Daenerys’ eyes connected with Jon’s over Margaery’s shoulder. He held the contact for a beat before he dragged his attention back to Robb next to him.

“Not all of them.”

Margaery smirked, still holding her and lowering her voice so Jorah couldn’t hear.

“Really, Dany?” she murmured, “ _again?_ ”

Daenerys shrugged and when Margaery let her go, she shook her head gently.

“I suppose it would be hypocritical of me to judge.”

She left her with a kiss on her cheek, taking Robb’s hand as they began the first dance. Daenerys danced with Jorah and Margaery but she didn’t have anyone else. She had no friends here, no supporters. The guests all looked at her suspiciously, like she might start breathing fire any minute.

Ned Stark scowled at her most of all and she fought the urge to flinch.

Suddenly, Theon Greyjoy was requesting something from the band, and then they struck up a familiar tune.

It took Daenerys a moment to recognise it — and when she did, she rolled her eyes with a smile.

It was _Sp_ _eak Softly Love,_ the theme from the Godfather.

From across the room, she watched Robb’s eyes widen before he threw his head back and laughed. Even Jon’s mouth twitched under his beard, rolling his eyes as he nudged a smirking Theon with his shoulder when he walked over to them.

The song swept into the first verse and then Jon was walking over to her.

He held a hand out and Daenerys swallowed thickly.

“Princess—”

Jorah started, but Daenerys interrupted him.

“It’s alright, Jorah.”

He didn’t look happy about it, his fingers twitching, and Jon’s mouth quirked.

“Would you like to search me first?”

He held his arms out mockingly, his brow arched. It was a futile reassurance. She knew as well as he did that if Jorah _did_ search him, he would find a Colt 45 tucked into his waistband. She knew because she had held the weapon in her own hands, ran her fingers over the cool steel, before she’d dropped it onto the table and he’d dropped to his knees.

He held Jorah’s gaze as she took his hand.

He lead them to the middle of the floor and she stood in-front of him.

Then, the world seemed to pause on its axis as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her into him.

It felt strange, to be in his arms again. He clasped her hand in his other and held it level with their shoulders.

They moved to the beat and Daenerys felt the dulcet, seductive tone wash over her like a blanket. Coupled with his proximity, it made her skin prickle with heat.

“The song is a little on the nose, don’t you think?”

Jon smirked.

“Theon has a warped sense of humour,” he said, “ _Princess_.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“Don’t call me that,” she muttered, though it _did_ sound better from his lips.

He chuckled, a low deep sound that shot straight between her thighs.

“Who is he?”

She looked at him, trying to gauge his reaction.

“A bodyguard… of sorts,” she shrugged, “it would have been foolish of me to come into the wolf’s den with no protection.”

He let out a little scoff, his dark eyes focused on a spot over her shoulder.

“He looks fifty,” he said, “and I don’t think you need a man for protection.”

Her throat suddenly felt very dry, a vice around her heart. His tone was casual, his eyes still over her shoulder as they moved to the song, but hearing him say that _meant_ something to her.

She was surrounded by men who underestimated her — but he treated her like an equal.

“Still, I like to have him close.”

“He doesn’t look at you like a bodyguard,” he murmured, his tone displeased, “he hasn’t taken his eyes off you all night.”

She quirked a brow at that.

“Which implies _you_ haven’t taken your eyes off me all night.”

His mouth twitched, his dark eyes finally dragging to hers. She burned under them, her fingers tightening around his.

“You’re kind of hard to miss.”

His arm tightened around her, pulling her in so her nose grazed the hollow of his throat. He smelled intoxicating, all masculine cologne and smoke and expensive champagne. He was so icy, so sullen and brooding, but his hands burned through the fabric of her dress. She felt dizzy with it, drunk with want. It was a heady feeling. 

“Are you jealous?”

She half expected him to laugh at her, to bite back a snarky reply or feign cool indifference.

Instead, his voice was even and smooth as he said—

“Aye, what if I am?”

She couldn’t reply, breaking his gaze instead. It was too intense to bear, heat flaring under her skin, and she noticed a redhead watching them with her eyes narrowed, her arms crossed over her chest.

“It appears you have admirers of your own,” she grumbled, “that girl over there hasn't stopped glaring at me.”

He quirked a brow, twisting them until he could see who she was referring to.

Then, he laughed.

“Look at her ring.”

Daenerys craned her neck a little obviously and saw the wolf on the girl’s finger. It matched his own, the one she could feel against her skin as he held her hand between them. Their entwined fingers were clasped against his chest now and she could feel the beat of his heart, an infuriatingly steady rhythm compared to the butterfly stutter of her own.

“My sister,” he clarified, “Sansa.”

Daenerys almost rolled her eyes at the relief that washed through her, wanting to kick herself. It was all very predictable.

“She’s very beautiful,” she grumbled reluctantly — because with her porcelain skin, pale blue eyes and fire in her hair, she _was_.

“She’s very suspicious of outsiders,” he corrected.

Daenerys bristled, a brief flicker of weakness passing over her face. It felt like they were all looking at her, all judging her for her name, and she held onto his hand tighter.

“What about other women?” the words escaped her without her permission, “have you had many… since that night?”

His mouth twitched and around them, the song started to build to its crescendo.

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” his voice was amused as he avoided the question, “I’ve thought about it though.”

“About what?”

“That night.”

She swallowed, her eyes drifting to his mouth.

“You have?”

“Aye, I’ve thought about you,” he said then, his voice dropping a note, “it haunts me… that pretty noise you make when you come.”

“Jon!” she gasped, mock-scandalised, as her eyes darted around her to check no-one heard.

 _My life is yours_ —

She held his gaze and caught onto the lyrics as the song came to an end, the atmosphere blistering white hot between them.

— _and all because you came into my world with love, so softly love._

The band drifted seamlessly into the next song but Daenerys could barely hear it. It felt like there was a fist around her heart, squeezing tight, and she took a step back from him.

He opened his mouth to say something but they were interrupted by a shout.

“Get the fuck out,” Robb Stark was snarling, the person on the other side hidden from sight. Jon blinked once before he snapped into action, moving over to his brother. Against her better judgement, Daenerys followed, and Jorah was right behind.

Her eyes widened at the sight in-front of her.

A dozen or so men stood at the entrance of the hall. She didn’t recognise most of them — only the lion and stag emblems sewn into their jackets — but she did recognise Joffrey Baratheon.

Margaery rushed over to her, grabbing her hand, and Daenerys didn’t miss the way Jon was angling his body slightly, shielding her from view. She dipped her head, not wanting to be seen, to complicate things and muddy the waters further.

Ned Stark stepped forward, the guests parting for him like the sea. The respect he commanded was obvious and he walked with a slight limp. Jaime Lannister had put a knife through his calf many years ago, so she'd been told, and the injury had stuck.

“I just came to give my congratulations to the happy couple,” Joffrey drawled, his hands clasped behind his back, “you can imagine how… _disappointed_ I was not to receive an invitation.”

Margaery was trembling.

“It’s alright,” Daenerys whispered, squeezing her hand, “the Starks and the Baratheons are _friends_ , are they not?”

She shook her head.

“Ned and Robert were friends,” she corrected in a whisper, “now Robert is gone. Joffrey is wild and unpredictable — and I spurned him for Robb.”

Joffrey liked to cause trouble, revelled in it, and at the cruel look in his eye, Daenerys’ fear grew.

“You don’t belong here,” Theon was speaking then, low and dangerous, “you should leave.”

“You should keep your fucking mouth shut, Greyjoy,” Joffrey snarled, “this doesn’t concern you.”

"For the love I bore your father..." Ned referenced Robert, now lost in a hunting accident that left his dynasty to this dangerous man-child, "...I'm offering you a chance to leave peacefully."

Joffrey merely smirked sinisterly. 

“Joffrey, please…” Margaery whispered, taking a step forward, her hand outstretched cautiously.

The band had stopped playing, the guests gathered around to watch the commotion, and the air felt thin and tense.

“Ah, my lovely Margaery,” Joffrey said, his tone dripping with sarcasm, “only you’re not mine, are you? Your father promised you to me, you know, and I don’t appreciate being made a fool of.”

Mace Tyrell drew his eyes to the floor, looking sheepish. Daenerys had always thought him a weak fool, but now she really hated him. 

Joffrey extended a hand to Margaery and Robb stepped in-front of it.

“Don’t touch her,” he snarled, every inch as wild as the wolf on his family’s banners.

Joffrey’s nostrils flared before he sighed and smiled brightly. Daenerys caught a flash of metal out of the corner of her eye as Jon’s suit jacket shifted slightly over his hip. His fingers twitched at his side, ready to reach for his gun.

“Alright, alright,” Joffrey held his hands up in mock surrender and he began to walk backwards, “I’ve paid my respects. I’ll be leaving.”

Daenerys held her breath, her muscles pulled taut like the string of a bow, as Joffrey walked away.

His thugs followed him.

He stopped and began to turn around—

“Oh, and just one more thing…”

—then he drew his gun and shot Robb once in the chest.

There was barely enough time to register Margaery and Catelyn Stark’s screams before chaos broke out. Jorah grabbed her, dragging her backwards as Jon and Theon growled and pulled out their own guns. Robb clutched at his chest, crimson soaking through his crisp white shirt and oozing between his fingers.

He fell to the floor, caught by his father and new wife.

Jorah was still dragging her backwards.

“No!” she shouted, “we have to help them!”

“It’s not our fight, Princess,” his reply was gruff in her ear.

She could see Jon on top of Joffrey now, pummelling his face with his bare fists. The Baratheon and Lannister men were fighting the Starks, gunshots and blood reigning down.

Jon had his hands around Joffrey’s throat then, squeezing tight. Joffrey’s legs were thrashing, his expression desperate, and it was only when he managed to knee Jon in the groin that he could scramble away. Jon grunted, doubling over in pain but recovering quickly and taking after him as he ran.

It was all a blur then.

Robb was carried away, a sobbing Margaery right behind him, and the guests continued to spill blood.

“This way,” Daenerys hissed to Jorah, grabbing his hand and following the direction Jon and Joffrey had gone. She dodged the fighting, keeping her head down, and breathed in the cool night air.

She gasped when she found them.

Joffrey was on his back in the grass, a bullet hole in his forehead as his wide eyes stared unblinkingly at the star-speckled sky. She didn’t much care, her eyes scanning desperately for any sign of Jon.

She heard him before she saw him.

It was a little grunt, low and pained, and her head snapped to the side.

He was leaning against a tree, his head bowed. His other hand covered his side and Daenerys’ stomach dropped when she saw blood seeping through his fingers.

“Jon,” she gasped, rushing over to him.

He let her prop him up, wincing as her body pressed against his wound.

She quickly lifted his shirt, her stomach twisting further at the confirmation that he’d been shot.

“We need to get him to the hospital.”

“No,” he bit out immediately, “no hospitals.”

They would be recognised, or there would be too many questions, and she tried to figure out an alternative.

“Alright,” she muttered and even she couldn’t believe what she was going to say next, “I’ll take you home.”

“Daenerys!” Jorah used her name then, outraged, and she practically bared her teeth.

“He’s hurt,” she hissed, “he could die. Just get the car.”

“I’m fine,” Jon grunted — and then he collapsed.

* * *

Daenerys slipped the wolf ring off his finger before she took him inside.

One of the guards — they called him Greyworm, though she didn’t know his real name — was a military man. He had served time in the army, was familiar with guns and the damage they could make, so he assessed the wound.

Jon hissed as he peeled the blood soaked shirt away, cutting it from his body.

She helped hold him down, her hands on his shoulders as he bit down on a piece of wood and Greyworm dug the bullet out.

He grimaced, his body squirming against the kitchen table, but she was grateful he didn’t scream. When the pain became too much, he grabbed her hand, squeezing her fingers. 

The bullet clinked against the glass when Greyworm used some tweezers to drop it into a container.

“He’ll be fine,” he grunted in his thick accent, taking his rubber gloves off, “he needs to rest.”

“Thank you,” Daenerys nodded gratefully, “help me get him upstairs.”

“Robb—” Jon choked out, his face contorting in pain, like saying the name hurt more than the hole in his side.

“He’s alive,” Daenerys whispered, “Margaery called me from the car. He’s alive.”

Jon’s chest heaved with the force of his sigh — and he could finally rest.

* * *

Daenerys watched him as he slept.

She was propped up on her side, leaning on her right elbow, her left hand resting on his chest.

He looked so peaceful, soft breaths falling from his pillowy lips. He certainly didn’t look like a man who had just beaten someone half to death and put a bullet through his head to finish the job. She had cleaned the blood from his face herself, dabbing at his cuts and rolling her eyes when he hissed in pain and swore at her, and she couldn’t stop herself from running her fingers down his face.

She felt the rough coarseness of his beard, the sharp edge to his jaw, and his soft lips parted under her touch.

“Stop staring at me,” his voice made her jump, his lips moving under her fingers.

She pulled her hand back in surprise.

His eyes were closed but one corner of his mouth quirked.

“Go find something better to do.”

 _There is nothing better to do,_ the reply burned on the tip of her tongue, _you are so very beautiful — and you were nearly gone._

“How do you feel?” she asked quietly.

"Like I’ve been shot.”

She rolled her eyes, a smile tugging at her lips.

“At least you haven’t lost your sense of humour.”

His eyes stayed shut but his smile seemed to falter.

“Robb…” he asked again, “he’s really okay?”

“He lost a lot of blood,” she said gently, “but he’ll live.”

He nodded and his expression relaxed.

She almost felt guilty for what she said next — but she had to say it.

“Jon, your other brother… Bran…” she started, her hand finding his and entwining their fingers as he opened his eyes to look at her, “he was shot too.”

Something akin to fear flickered over Jon’s face.

“Is he…?”

She couldn’t bring herself to tell him how the bullet had lodged in his spine, how they said he would never walk again. For now, all she could do was reassure him he was alive. He was safe.

“He’s alive.”

Jon nodded, wincing slightly as he shifted in the bed.

“Your first Stark wedding,” he muttered dully, “quite the affair.”

She laughed but there was little humour in it.

“I admit, I’ve been to better.”

He shifted again, tried to sit up, before he fell back with a frustrated grunt.

“I need a cigarette.”

Daenerys quirked a brow.

“I don’t think so.”

He groaned, his eyes shuttering again.

“Cruel woman.”

She smiled, letting go of his hand to touch his cheek.

“I can’t believe you’re here,” she whispered, “in my bed… I thought Jorah was going to have a heart attack.”

It took a lot of persuading, a lot of pacing and shouting and choice words. She told him if he threw Jon out, she would just leave with him, and then he would have to explain to Viserys how he lost his sister.

“He’s in love with you.”

She bristled under the accusation, like saying it out loud breathed life into it.

“You don’t even know him.”

“I know what a man looks like when he's in love.”

She bit her bottom lip, her eyes drifting over his stoic face. She wondered about his past. She wondered if he’d had a woman before, if he knew what it was like to want someone, wholly and completely, and she wondered if he’d been in love — because she never had.

“Thank you,” he murmured suddenly, “for helping me. For letting Rickon go. I should have said it earlier.”

“It’s okay. You are so very stubborn.”

She was joking but her smile faltered at the serious look on his face.

“You were right, what you said before…” he started, his voice low and gruff, “you do make me feel like a traitor.”

Her lips twitched, her throat suddenly very dry.

Her eyes flickered from his own to his lips and back again. The air seemed to thin, burning and thick with the weight of everything left unsaid, the intensity between them.

With the moonlight streaming in through the high arched window, she leaned forward and closed the gap between them.

His lips were soft, warm and pliant under hers, and it took him a moment to return the kiss. Briefly, she worried she’d misread the situation, this heat between them, but just as she started to pull back, his mouth began to move. His lips parted and his tongue swept into her mouth. He swallowed the moan she didn’t mean to make, the kiss growing more passionate. Her lips moved faster, her tongue tangling with his, and her thumb gently swiped over his cheekbone as they kissed.

She shifted, her leg slotting between his. Her hips tilted towards him until she was practically riding his thigh, careful of his injured side. He released a little groan into her mouth, his hand snaking around her to grab her ass and anchor her to him. His other hand came up to her face, tangling in her ice blonde hair.

She tugged at his bottom lip when she felt his cock stir against her thigh.

“I want to fuck you,” he whispered heatedly against the corner of her mouth.

Desire flared in her gut at his words, her aching cunt clenching around nothing.

She rolled her hips, making him shift his own, and there was a flash of white as he hissed through his teeth. 

Her eyes flickered to his bandages, her fingers gently running over the rough material.

“You can barely move.”

He clicked his tongue, seemingly considering their options.

“Aye, but you could fuck me,” he said with a wicked grin.

Daenerys’s mouth twitched, dipping down to brush her mouth against his again.

“Would you like that?”

His tongue licked along her bottom lip, tasting her, before it slid into her mouth and against hers.

“Yes,” he hissed through his teeth, “ride me, sweetheart.”

She slung a leg over him, careful to avoid his injured side as she settled in his lap.

He lifted his hips and she tugged the sweatpants she’d found for him down his legs. He grimaced again when he moved too quickly but the look was replaced with desire when she pulled her nightshirt over her head. She was naked underneath and she lifted his hand to her breast. He squeezed it, his thumb swiping across her nipple, before he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger.

She whimpered, her soaked cunt sliding over his cock as he tweaked her nipple again.

She leaned down, capturing his mouth in a kiss. 

“There’s, um—” she blurted out, making him pause, his mouth a hair's breadth from hers, “—there’s been no-one else. I don’t expect you to say the same, I just… wanted you to know.”

He was silent, his gaze drifting from her eyes to her mouth and back again. 

“Me too. No-one else.”

She drew back slightly, her brow furrowing. She remembered that shuttered look he’d given her on the dance floor when she’d asked, how he’d said it wasn’t her business.

“You made it sound like…”

He tipped his head to the side, his hands settling on her waist.

She smirked, rolling her eyes, and kissed him again.

“Asshole,” she muttered, nipping at his lips.

His fingers went between her wet thighs, two fingers stroking her slit.

“Always so wet for me, aren’t you?”

She nodded frantically, rolling her hips against his fingers. He flicked her clit, rubbing it in tight circles, before he pushed his fingers inside her. She moaned, riding his fingers as he curled them inside her. When he pulled them out of her, he slipped them into his mouth, his tongue wrapping around the digits sinfully.

“Come here,” he patted his chest, eyes wild, “I want to taste your cunt again.”

She whimpered, remembering the way he’d drawn out her pleasure before. He had a wicked mouth; she had dreamt about it for a year and now he was _here._ It didn’t seem real.

She walked her knees up his body, shifting until her pussy was hovering above his mouth.

He licked his lips and then he leaned up and buried his face in her cunt.

She threw her head back, her hands flying to the bed frame. Her fingers gripped it, her hips rolling against his tongue. He licked at her in slow, wet, dirty strokes, his fingers digging into the flesh of her behind. He rocked her against his face, his teeth scraping against her clit. Her toes curled into the sheets, her eyes rolling back, as he committed her body to memory.

He remembered how to touch her, remembered what lick, what suck, would drive her over the edge. He circled her clit with his tongue, lapping at her wetly, before he stiffened his tongue and pushed it inside her soaking entrance. He groaned into her cunt, the vibration making her shake, and swallowed what she gave him.

She was soaking his beard, her juices mixing with his saliva, as she rode his face. He slid his tongue back up to her clit, focusing his attention on it, as his finger teased her back entrance. Her cheeks flushed at the dirtiness of it, her hips bucking against his face, and she noticed the absence of his other hand.

Curiously, she glanced behind her shoulder and groaned when she saw him lazily stroking his cock. He gave it slow pumps, squeezing the tip, as he ate her out.

Her orgasm crept up on her, crashing into her with an unbearable force. She trembled as he growled hotly into her cunt, releasing little grunts that served only to stoke her desire. She wondered if she should feel guilty, that they were doing this in the wake of tragedy, but then she reminded herself this was their world.

It wasn’t the first time something like this had happened — and it wouldn’t be the last.

But they were _here_.

They were here, and they were safe, and they were together.

She climbed off his face, sliding down his body until her soaked slit brushed against his cock. 

She kissed him, tasting herself on his tongue and leaning forward to dig into the bedside table next to them. She searched frantically for a condom, ripping it with her teeth and rolling it down his hard cock. He might have been injured but that part of him was working just fine, judging by the way he throbbed in her hand, red and angry and weeping from the tip.

She spread her legs wider, held his gaze, and sank down onto him.

“Gods, your cunt…” Jon hissed, letting out a low groan as her heat enveloped him.

His teeth snagged on his bottom lip and she rolled it free with her thumb.

She moaned, sliding up and down his cock.

Her fingers dug into his chest, carving half-moon crescents into his skin.

 _Mine,_ the dragon inside her hissed.

She fucked him harder, grinding down on his pelvis. She spread her thighs wider so her knees didn’t brush his injured side, her hands drifting over his chest.

He had so many scars, she thought mournfully, and she thought about her own.

It helped to know she wasn’t alone.

So many people had tried to hurt him, but he was alive and he was _here._

His fingers dug into the soft skin of her waist, guiding her up and down his cock.

It was more desperate than the first time. There was little build up. He poured no filth in her ears. She didn’t try to seduce him. There was no power play, no talk of dragons or wolves, and no worrying about what tomorrow would bring.

It was just him.

Just them.

She came again with a whimper, her thighs trembling around him. The tightness of it had him following with a growl, his fingers tightening around her waist as his cock jerked and pulsed inside her. She briefly cursed the condom, wanting to feel his warm seed filling her cunt, coating her womb. She wanted to feel it drip out of her, to still feel him inside her weeks after he was gone.

She didn’t want him to go.

She collapsed onto his chest, muttering an apology as he winced.

For a few moments, it was silent and she could pretend.

She could pretend they were something _other_ than what they were.

She could wonder how it would feel to be his — _really_ his. To just be a woman who loved him, and he a man who loved her, and there would be no dragons or no wolves and neither of them would belong to this world. He would have a boring, normal job and he wouldn’t know how to hold a gun or how it felt to be shot. She would crawl into their bed and let him massage her tired shoulders while she told him about her day, and it would be so boring to everyone else but to her, it would be perfect, because it was _normal._

Her fingers brushed against his side again, faltering when she noticed flecks of blood seeping through the bandages.

It brought her back to reality with a sickening crunch.

They would never be normal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jorah's the worst bodyguard ever and we love to see it.
> 
> I'm not entirely sure how they would know what the Godfather is but... allow it? 😂 🤷🏼♀️
> 
> To be honest, I could very well see this turning into a full blown story - I just love the gangster vibe. I don't want to promise anything though and don't want anymore WIPs so I'm leaving it 2/2 for now :) as always, would love to hear your thoughts.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was acting foolishly, like a silly little school girl with her first crush.
> 
> But the truth was… the very inconvenient, messy truth… Daenerys had grown a little obsessed with him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I lasted a few days before turning this into a story🤦🏼♀️ you only have yourselves and your lovely comments to blame! 
> 
> Seriously though, thank you for the support this fic has gotten. I couldn't get it out of my head so here you have it, a full blown story. I'm not sure how long this inspiration will last or how many chapters it will be, but hopefully you enjoy the ride.
> 
> As always, stay safe my loves.

* * *

Daenerys whimpered as her lover’s hot tongue slid down her neck.

He hummed against her flushed skin, a tiny little growl. She loved it when he lost control like this, the little noises he made when he knew no-one else could hear. Her eyes rolled back as his fingers found the sensitive bundle of nerves between her thighs. He spread her wetness with two of them before he pushed them inside.

“Jesus Christ,” she bit out, her breath catching in her throat.

She felt the curve of his smirk against her neck.

“Not quite.”

Her eyes rolled for a difference reason and she tugged him closer still.

“Say my name,” he husked, the grit of his stubble sliding over throat.

She clenched her jaw until it ached.

Her stubbornness only seemed to spur him on, made him more determined to rip it out of her, not only make her say it, make her _scream_ it. His arrogance infuriated her. It was obvious how much she wanted him—obvious from the way she tugged at his hair, bit his lips until they were swollen and pink, obvious from the impossibly wet, lewd sounds his fingers made as they fucked her.

It had been obvious right from the very beginning.

“Come on, baby,” he demanded, curling his fingers inside her, rubbing at the spot he knew drove her mad, “say it.”

His thumb rubbed at her clit in tight, insistent circles.

Her jaw ticked in stubborn refusal, her toes curling into the carpet. His mouth dragged from her neck to her lips and their teeth clashed with the force of his kiss. Desire snapped at her heels and crawled up her body — starting at her on-fire cunt until she could feel it strangling her throat. Her arousal was dripping from her, down the back of his hand and to his wrist, and with one more flick of her clit, the coil inside her snapped.

She didn’t just say his name — she sobbed it.

“ _Jon_.”

He slapped his other hand over her mouth.

“That’s it,” he cooed as her orgasm shot a violent shudder up her spine, “quiet now. Wouldn’t want them to hear, would we? Hear you begging for my cock. A _Wolf’s_ cock.”

She whimpered, a small and desperate and muffled sound that made _her_ sound like the animal on his family’s banners.

Her thighs trembled as he dragged his fingers out of her, the aftershocks still rolling through her body.

She tried to speak but it was muted by his palm.

“What was that?” he leaned in, his breath washing over her ear.

He took his hand away from her mouth.

“Arrogant prick.”

He smirked before giving her a perfunctory little kiss and pat on her cunt.

“You think you’re so smart,” she muttered against his jaw, letting her mouth graze the hard edge and revelling at the way he tried to suppress his shudder. Then she quickly manoeuvred them until his back was against the desk and she was dropping to her knees.

His expression darkened as her nimble fingers made quick work of his belt, dropping it to the floor with a _clink._ She pulled his expensive trousers and pants down, freeing his cock.

He was hard and weeping from the tip, sparking lust between her legs again. He liked to play with her, to pretend this was something casual, but he was just as affected as she was.

She licked the tip teasingly, her hand wrapping around the throbbing length. He gave a little grunt, his hands coming to entwine in her hair. His head tipped back, his eyes falling shut, and she took more of him in her mouth. She relaxed her throat as his hips started to thrust gently. She could see the corded muscles of his neck, feel the way his fingers twitched, every battle-honed muscle pulled taut with the strength of his restraint.   
  
She sucked on the mushroomed head, tasting the salty liquid that had seeped from the slit, and as her hand twisted over his thick length, the new ring on her finger was glaringly obvious.

The light caught the diamond just right and it glimmered cruelly.

 _“Leave it on,”_ he’d growled the first time she tried to take it off, burning with discomfort, _“I want you to think of me every time you look at it.”_

She hadn’t taken him for a possessive man — but his touch was a little wilder the night she told him about Drogo.

Viserys _had_ returned from Essos with new alliances, and she wasn’t surprised that most of them centred around her. She was to cement his newfound treaties by marrying a man named Drogo, the leader of a strange little faction who acted more like animals than men.

She had only met him a handful of times and she supposed he was… _fine_.

A little gruff, perhaps.

But he wasn’t Jon. He couldn’t be.

She hadn’t agreed for Viserys’ sake. It was for the Family. She would do her part.

And Jon seemed to like it, fucking her while she wore another man’s ring.

She supposed it was something primal, possessive. It brought the wolf out in him. She still remembered the night she’d told him, how he’d bent her over the desk in Viserys’ study and fucked her hard from behind. He’d pulled her hair and called her a bitch and she came so hard, she left scratches in the expensive wood.

She could feel him growing harder and pulsing in her mouth. She brought one hand to his balls, her nails scratching lightly over the sensitive skin and making him hiss, and he tugged a little tighter on her hair.

“Oh — _oh fuck_ ,” he panted, his grip tightening, and when she took the whole length of him, felt him bump the back of her throat, he grunted, “do that again.”

She did — and he cursed as he came, his cock jerking and spurting warm cum into her mouth.

She slid her mouth along his cock, not missing a drop. He groaned, his hips twitching before she released him with a pop.

He dragged her to her feet, capturing her lips in a fierce kiss. His mouth was slanting over hers when they heard the front door slam open, Viserys’ voice loud and boorish as he barked his orders.

“Shit,” she muttered, breaking away from his mouth, “you need to go.”

Jon grunted in response, backing away and pulling his pants up. He reached into his back pocket and pulled out his lighter and pack of Malboro Reds. She watched in disbelief as he placed a cigarette between his teeth and casually held it there as he buckled his belt.

“Are you serious?”

He quirked a silent brow, cupping the end of the cigarette with his hand as he lit it.

“Out!” she shooed him, rolling her eyes at his chuckle as she pushed him towards the window.

She pulled it open, letting in the cool night air, and this time, it was his turn to ask—

“Are _you_ serious?”

“He wasn’t supposed to be back this early,” she said, “you can hardly stroll past him out the front door, can you? He’ll kill you.”

Jon scoffed, a little exhale of air, like the idea couldn’t be funnier to him.

She pushed him further and he let himself be moved.

“Out,” she said again, crossing her arms over her chest.

Jon blinked, took a drag and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

“For fuck’s sake,” he muttered before rolling his eyes and holding the cigarette between his teeth again. He slung one leg out of the window until he was sitting on the frame, “I haven’t done this since I was sixteen.”

Daenerys’ laugh left her in a rush of breath.

“Glad I could reintroduce you to the process,” she leaned in and gave him a kiss, once on the lips for goodbye, and then he was climbing the lavender wisteria that intricately wound down the side of the house. 

She watched him go with an ache in her chest — and tried to ignore how complicated this was becoming.

* * *

“Princess, I wanted to talk to you about something.”

Daenerys looked up from the desk, quirking her brow at Jorah standing in the doorway. She nodded, closing the book on the desk. If she was honest, she could do with a break anyway. Keeping an eye on the Family’s finances was exhausting when her brother loved his lavish dinners and showering his whores with expensive gifts. 

The Starks had intercepted his last drug heist, taking the money for themselves. He had kidnapped Rickon, the littlest Stark, in response and she had given him back. Now he was organising a crew to raid the Lord’s Vault in Highgarden, stealing several millions in cash and jewellery. She prayed this didn’t go wrong too. She was always careful not to divulge her family’s secrets to Jon, always wary of his smooth tongue and pretty words — but she worried about her loyalty being twisted and bent so far that it broke.

She was a Targaryen before everything else.

 _You’re a Dragon,_ Margaery’s grandmother had told her once in a moment of crisis, squeezing her hands with a fierce glint in her eye, _be a Dragon._

She remembered Olenna’s words and told herself to be strong.

“What is it, Jorah?”

He walked inside and closed the door behind him.

“I’m worried about your relationship with the Wolf.”

Daenerys’ eyes widened, her head tilting so she could glance behind him.

“Viserys is in the gardens,” he clarified, “no-one can hear us.”

She sat back in the chair.

“I appreciate your concern, Jorah, but everything is fine,” she said, her voice clipped, “and it’s not a relationship.”

His jaw ticked and he clasped his hands behind his back.

“I’ve seen him sneaking in and out of your room. It’s only a matter of time before the other guards notice.”

Daenerys’ back stiffened, her hands drifting to the table where she clasped them delicately.

“It’s your job to protect me, is it not?”

“Not from your own bad decisions.”

She bristled — but she supposed it was a fair enough assertion.

“I appreciate this is hard for you,” she fought back her wince, not wanting to address the elephant in the room, the fact that he was in love with her and always had been, “and you’re in a difficult position. I will try to be more discreet. Besides, Jon is returning to the North soon.”

Soon he would be gone, leaving her bed with a little goodbye and a promise _until next time_. He swept in and out of her life like wildfire, leaving destruction in his wake. It wasn’t enough, but it was all she had. It was all he could give her — all they could give to each other.

Jorah nodded, obviously not happy with the situation but unwilling to push it further. He couldn’t say anything else anyway because the door was swinging open and Viserys was on the other side.

“Jesus,” she jumped slightly, “have you heard of knocking?”

“Shut up,” he rolled his eyes, “I have something to show you.”

She sighed and crossed one leg over the other, resting her hands on her thigh. Then she gave a small nod of acknowledgement. 

Jorah stepped to the side, another man walked in, and her stomach dropped.

She knew him.

She knew the curve of his sarcastic mouth and the dark glint to his eye. She knew those curls and the kraken emblazoned on his chest.

_Theon Greyjoy._

“What are you doing here?” she asked, standing up and walking around the edge of the desk. She came to stand in-front of it, crossing her arms over her chest.

He didn’t reply, his jaw locked and his expression unreadable.

“ _Theon_ here—” Viserys slapped a hand on Theon’s shoulder, “—has decided to reclaim his birth right. He’s finally seen sense. He wants to take back the Iron Islands, and we’re going to help him.”

Daenerys narrowed her eyes, tilting her head to the side.

“And why would we do that?”

“In exchange for information about the Starks, of course.”

Her gaze dragged slowly to Theon’s.

“You’re a traitor, then?”

Her tone was clipped, a little clinical and lined with disgust, and she watched his anger flair.

“A traitor?” he repeated slowly, “the Starks stole me from my bed when I was a little boy. They held me hostage my entire life.”

It wasn’t that simple and he knew it.

Balon Greyjoy had been a dangerous drug lord who cared little about his children. They said Ned Stark had taken him out and taken Theon _in,_ riddled with guilt when his men found the little boy cowering in a closet upstairs. They said he had a sister, but they never found her, and Theon had been with them ever since.

He infuriated him, pushed his buttons, but Jon considered him a brother. They were slightly on the periphery, Jon a bastard and Theon Ironborn, but Ned treated both of them as sons.

Part of her considered it a victory; he would have valuable information to share.

Another part of her hurt for Jon. He would be devastated.

“This is a victory for us, sister,” Viserys emphasised, “the Starks have been hit by tragedy. Look what happened at the Young Wolf’s wedding. He nearly murdered, Bran Stark crippled, the White Wolf killing Joffrey Baratheon… they have no allies. Cersei will never back the family who killed her son, that takes the Lannisters and Baratheons out. All that’s left is the Tyrells. Rich and powerful, but not enough.”

“And now you have your very own spy,” she finished the thought.

Her brother grinned.

“Yes, my plan worked rather well, don’t you think?”

Daenerys frowned, trying to make sense of it all.

“What plan?”

“Don’t you think it’s rather _convenient_ that Robert died so tragically before his time, given that his friendship with Ned Stark was the only thing holding their alliance together?”

“Robert died in a hunting accident.”

Viserys’ mouth twisted into a sinister smile.

“Oh little sister,” he drawled sarcastically, “don’t be so naïve.”

The penny dropped.

There were no accidents in their world.

“You conspired with Cersei Lannister,” she said dully.

“Granted, I don’t think she expected her son to throw the Five Families into such turmoil so quickly, but no matter,” he waved a dismissive hand, “the point is — the Starks are weakened and we have never been more powerful. Especially with your betrothal to Drogo. Once you are married, I will have Essos in my pocket too.”

She felt a rock in the pit of her stomach. She didn’t want to think about that, stuck as she was in steadfast denial.

She shook her head, plastering a fake smile on her face.

“Congratulations, brother.”

She said — and then she brushed past him with a frown.

* * *

Jon was angry, the next time he fucked her.

He took her in steady thrusts against the door, so hard it made it rattle in its frame. He slapped a hand over her mouth when she moaned, told her to be quiet, and buried his face in her neck.

She felt the power in every thrust, the fury that emanated off him in waves. She felt how hurt he was too, the way his fingers tugged and flexed at the skin of her waist. It was like he was pulling her closer and pushing her away, all at the same time.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t address what was brewing between them, the resentfulness, the rage. She didn’t tell him Theon was downstairs and he didn’t ask. He knew. If he wanted to, he could have his hands wrapped around his throat in a few steps.

Perhaps he _did_ want to — but he didn’t.

She moaned, too hot and too loud, when his thumb reached between her bodies and he rubbed her clit. He was practically slamming into her now, his cock nearly sliding out of her before he pushed it back in to the hilt. She sobbed against the onslaught, her arms winding their way around his neck.

She tugged at his sweat slicked curls, pulled them until it made him hiss. He was so warm and so good and in the moment, so _hers,_ and the sensation was overwhelming. His palm must have been damp with the condensation of her breaths and he gripped her face harder, his fingers digging into her cheeks. Her eyes were wide and blown with lust as she stared at him, at the furrow in his brow, and wordlessly begged him to fuck her harder.

Once he had brought her off with a silent scream, knowing just how to do it, he pulled out of her and flipped her around. He pushed her against the door, one hand slamming on the wood by the side of her head and the other guiding his wet cock back inside her.

He pushed into her well-fucked, swollen cunt with a growl and she felt like a fawn on unsteady legs, wobbly and still trembling from the force of her own orgasm. She rested her forehead against the door and tried to catch her breath as he fucked her roughly.

His other hand held her hip, angling her for his onslaughts and aiding her as she pushed herself onto his cock. They fit into a steady rhythm, meeting each other thrust for thrust.

She reared back, both hands curling into the door in-front of her, and his own hands flew to her hips. It was silent save for her pants and his grunts, and when he slapped her ass, the sound of flesh on flesh pierced the air.

“Fuck,” she moaned. "Again.”

He obeyed, a thick growl falling from his lips as he gave her another smack. She imagined the red imprint his hand would leave behind and flew into another orgasm, gushing over his cock.

Her tightening cunt milked his own orgasm from him and she felt his cock jerk and pulse as he came. She’d started taking the pill a few months before, wanting to feel him inside her, and she shuddered as his seed coated her insides. She felt some of it spill and drip onto her wet thighs as he pulled out.

She leaned her forehead against the door again, fighting for her breath to return to normal, as she heard the zip of his fly behind her.

Sometimes, he stayed.

He stayed and they talked — sometimes about the important things, sometimes about nothing at all.

He told her how he got the scars on his chest, told her the story behind each one as her finger drifted over the raised patch of skin where he was shot that night. She told him about her dreams, how she loved to paint but she hadn't in a long time, and how much she missed Missandei. She came to know him. She knew he loved Robb best, and he used to carry Arya around on his shoulders, and Sansa pissed him off the most, but he loved her as well. She knew how his voice got all hollow when he spoke about the mother he never knew — and she told him she wished she’d known her mother too. 

He never said much, but he always said _some,_ and that had to mean something.

What Theon did wasn’t her fault — but _still_ , he felt very far away.

Her chest felt too tight, her eyes and throat burning inexplicably, and she tried to reach for him.

“Jon.”

He shook his head and took a step back.

“Not now, Daenerys.”

He said quietly — and then he was gone.

* * *

She was in one of the studies, examining Jon’s ring in her hand. 

She turned it over a few times, her eyes skating over it, like it might shift and bend under her gaze at any moment. Like it might turn into something else, or the wolf might open its jaws and howl.

She should have given it back months ago.

She’d had plenty of opportunities. He’d asked about it the very night she’d taken it, the night he’d been shot, staring at his bare hand with a frown.

_“My father won’t be pleased,” he’d grumbled, “those things are expensive.”_

_“Maybe it’s in the grass somewhere by Joffrey’s body.”_

_The mention of the Baratheon distracted him, as she knew it would, and his frown deepened._

_“Bastard,” he’d muttered – and she covered his next words with a kiss._

She didn’t know why she hadn’t told him; she didn’t know why she kept it.

She just liked looking at it.

She liked the craftsmanship, how it was strange and a little intimidating, but above all very, _very_ beautiful.

It was similar to the dragon she wore on her right index finger. The important members of the Five Families all had one; it was one of the easiest, quickest ways to recognise one of them.

The Baratheons had their stags, the Lannisters their lions, and the ones made for the Tyrells were the most beautiful of all. Daenerys had often caught herself marvelling at the delicate rose on Margaery’s finger. She wondered if she wore a wolf now. Even the Ironborn had them, even though they weren't traditionally one of the five.

As she stared at it, she fought the urge to roll her eyes at her own behaviour.

She was acting foolishly, like a silly little school girl with her first crush.

But the truth was… the very inconvenient, messy truth… Daenerys _had_ grown a little obsessed with him.

She had slipped the ring on her finger before she even realised it, the jewellery far too large for her. She couldn’t help but compare it to her engagement ring, undoubtedly less fine, but somehow far more important.

As she turned it, she saw something engraved on the inside—

_J. S._

She had never noticed that before.

She was so lost in thought, she didn’t hear the door swing open. The click of the latch made her jump and the ring flew off her finger.

Turning in her chair, gasping as the metal clinked on the floor, she thought she might have laughed, had the situation been different.

Had that wolf ring, the one that belonged to one of their biggest enemies, not been rolling straight towards Theon Greyjoy and her brother.

She held her breath as Viserys stopped it with his foot, leaning down and picking it up. He looked at it curiously and she knew the exact moment he realised what it was.

He paused, blinked.

Something terrifying swept over his features, dark and murderous, and time seemed to stand still.

“What the _fuck_ is this?” he roared, the explosive sound of his voice causing Theon to flinch next to him.

Daenerys stood, brushing some invisible fluff off the fabric of her dress.

“It’s a ring,” she said.

To her credit, she remained calm as Viserys seethed, his fingers examining the offending band. In her mind, she saw the night she slipped it off Jon’s finger. She saw the way it looked against the trigger of his gun, the blood that seeped through his shirt, the way he’d writhed in pain on her kitchen table.

She had been carrying him into the dragon’s lair, surrounded by Targaryen men, and she’d wanted to keep him safe.

She felt that same desire now — this strange urge to protect him.

She took a step back, put a safe distance between them. She had been party to hundreds of Viserys’ tantrums over the years. She had watched him tug and pull at his ice blonde hair, the hair that matched hers, his fury detonating. She knew to let it explode and hope there wasn’t too much damage when it was all over. 

“And why the _fuck_ do you have it?” he hissed, each word sharper and louder than the previous, “are you fucking one of them? Are you fucking a Wolf?”

She swallowed, praying his incredulous tone meant he didn’t really believe that was a possibility.

“Of course not, I—”

The words lodged in her throat.

She couldn’t think.

 _Fuck,_ why couldn’t she think?

White hot panic strangled her throat as he drew nearer, his fingers clenching into a fist.

There was fire in his eyes, a frenzied sort of madness, and she closed her eyes and prepared for the contact.

It never came.

Instead, Theon Greyjoy let out a laugh and said—

“You found it.”

The siblings looked at him, matching expressions of confusion etched on their faces.

“It’s mine,” he clarified, looking unfazed, “I lost it when I arrived.”

He held his right hand up and light glinted off the ring he was already wearing. It was a silver kraken, its tentacles intricately carved into the metal and winding around his finger.

“I wear one on each hand,” he explained smoothly, “one for the Ironborn and one for the Starks.”

She blinked at him.

His gaze was hard, his mouth pinched slightly too tight, but she had to admit — he had a good poker face. She didn’t know why he was helping her, didn’t understand or care to understand, not when Viserys was still angrily turning the ring over in his hands.

A wave of nausea hit her stomach as she silently prayed he wouldn’t notice the engraving.

Theon’s mouth twitched as he held his hand out.

When her brother twisted it a certain way, she noticed his easy smile falter.

He knew about the engraving too. He knew where to find it.

“May I?” he asked.

Viserys frowned.

“Why do you want it if you’ve left all that behind?” he sounded a little suspicious but Theon remained calm.

“Call me sentimental,” he drawled with a smooth grin.

Viserys blinked before he scoffed, handing it over to him with a roll of his eyes. He was seemingly already bored of the topic and he launched into a disjointed rant about Petyr Baelish, a name Daenerys hadn’t heard since she was a little girl.

Through it all, she tried to catch Theon’s eye.

His fingers curled around the ring, clenching it in his fist, but he wouldn’t look at her.

* * *

She knocked on the door of the bedroom they gave Theon, tapping her foot impatiently.

He opened it after a minute or so, pausing with his hand on the frame when he saw it was her. He stared at her for a beat before he gave a heavy sigh and opened the door wider. She pushed past him, standing in the middle of the room and crossing her arms over her chest.

“I came to thank you,” she said quietly, “for what you did.”

“It’s fine,” he said curtly, “now if you don’t mind…”

He didn’t bother to make an excuse, to pretend he was busy. He just didn’t want to see her, didn’t want to have this conversation, but she wasn’t letting it go that easily.

“Why did you do it?”

“ _Daenerys_.”

“I want to know.”

“I’m sure you do,” he sighed in exasperation, “and I’m sure you’re used to getting everything you want.”

She shrugged.

“Yes, I am.”

He blinked at her, scoffed, and tried to feign indifference.

“Just didn’t fancy watching a man beat a defenceless woman.”

“I don’t believe you.”

His jaw ticked in impatient anger.

“Why did I do it then?” he tested her, “ _you_ tell me, seeing as you know everything.”

She voiced the suspicion she’d had from the start, the one that had been brewing inside her. What happened with the ring had only confirmed it.

It was something her brother was too arrogant to consider and she spoke with a steely sense of determination.

“You didn’t stop being loyal to the Starks the moment you walked through our door.”

To his credit, his expression remained stoic, but there was a flicker of _something_ before he got himself in check.

“I’ve given your brother information,” he insisted, “leads.”

“Leads on where some money is hidden, where Catelyn stashes her jewellery, the mistress Robb left behind in the Westerlands…” she rolled her eyes, “nothing of consequence.”

His chin lifted then, his nostrils flaring as he lost his temper.

“You think you know me because you fucked Jon a few times?”

She stiffened, her blood turning cold.

“What?”

His mouth twisted bitterly.

“I saw the way you looked at each other at Robb’s wedding,” he growled, taking a step towards her before his expression turned mocking, “and now _this._ ”

He tossed the ring at her and her hands darted out of reflex to catch it.

Her eyes found the engraving again.

_J. S._

He was still talking, his tone hostile.

“You think you’re the first one to fall under his spell?”

She looked at him then.

“What do you mean?”

To her frustration, he didn’t elaborate. He was too busy pacing up and down, running an anxious hand through his hair. He started talking at a rapid-fire rate, his pacing relentless.

“I thought he was smarter than this,” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to her, “he’s going to get us all killed.”

“You haven’t turned away from the Starks at all,” she ignored him, finishing the accusation instead, “you’ve been working for them the whole time.”

“Congratulations,” he said bitterly, “you’re very astute.”

She thought again about the angry way Jon had fucked her, the pain and rage that had flowed from him. Unless he was a very good actor, that was _real_.

“Jon doesn’t know,” she said — it wasn’t a question.

“No, we didn’t tell him.”

“You don’t trust him?”

“We don’t trust _you,_ ” he fired back in a snarl, “and neither should he.”

She frowned, unable to argue with him, to tell him that he _can_ trust her, because her loyalty was still to her family and perhaps he shouldn’t.

“He doesn’t,” she said, because she knew this at least, “he doesn’t trust me. He doesn’t tell me anything.”

“Let’s hope it stays that way,” Theon said dully and he walked over to the door, holding it open, “ _you_ are exactly why Ned and Robb decided to keep it from him. They can’t stop him from seeing you, he wouldn’t listen so they wouldn’t try, but they are not going to let a Targaryen ruin their family again.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, a strange ache in her chest as she walked over to the door.

Maybe he saw the look on her face, or maybe he wasn’t as cold as he appeared, but his expression seemed to soften as she brushed past him. His hand curled around her elbow, his tone quiet and shielded from prying ears.

“Daenerys, I’m not saying any of this to hurt you,” he murmured, “I’m sure you’re nothing like your brother. Jon is a good man… but what kind of life could he offer you? He can’t give you anything other than sneaking around in the dark. He knows it — and you know it.” 

She nodded, her temper flaring because she wasn’t _stupid._ She wasn’t a child. She glared up at him, her gaze hard and unyielding.

“I know a lot of things,” she insisted, “the Starks may hate me, but Rhaegar and Lyanna did what they did _together._ A Wolf ruined my family too.”

She tore her arm from his grip like he’d burned her and she didn’t look back.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "My father is not a young man,” Robb's voice had dropped a note and she wondered what the relevance of that was until he continued, “when he is gone, the dynasty will fall to me. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you—I will do whatever it takes to protect my family.”
> 
> His expression was smooth and casual... but Daenerys knew a threat when she heard one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So… I really do have no control when it comes to this story, huh? Don’t know where all these fast updates are coming from, but hopefully it continues! Enjoy my loves.

  
  


* * *

  
The club was heady, filled with smoke and pulsing heat.

Daenerys fiddled with the ring on her finger, the diamond glinting under the twinkling lights, and tried to bring herself back to reality.

Viserys was talking—he was _always_ talking—and she blinked and tried to listen.

Illyrio Mopatis sat opposite them, drawing heavy drags from a Churchill cigar. His fat lips wrapped around the end of it and he blew messy rings through coughs of smoke. She sighed, tapping her manicured fingers on the table, the ring beating against the stem of her martini glass.

She tried not to look at him, grimacing under his lustful gaze. He had a huge belly, the bottom of which peeked out from his ill-fitting white shirt, the buttons stretched under the pressure. When he laughed, it bounced vigorously, beads of perspiration pebbling on his forehead. He had clearly smothered himself in at least three different colognes but she could still smell him, all bad breath and stale sweat and when he licked his lips, she could see his tongue flick against yellow teeth. 

Illyrio Mopatis was _vile_ —but he was also immensely powerful.

So she smiled when he grinned at her, tried not to flinch when his meaty fingers squeezed her thigh. He had travelled a long way from Pentos to broker the marriage treaty with Drogo. Drogo desired an exotic wife—he had told her so himself in his broken English—and Viserys desired his army of thugs to help take back control of Westeros.

What _Daenerys_ desired didn’t seem all too important and she silently seethed behind her glass.

She’d ordered a fireball cinnamon whiskey, needing the burn as it scorched down her throat, but Viserys had clicked his tongue and told her that wasn’t a drink for a woman. She’d rolled her eyes but relented, knowing to pick her battles. Now, as Illyrio started to boast about a fair-haired, blue-eyed sixteen-year-old who worked for him, she felt the battle start to rage.

“I thought slavery was outlawed in Pentos,” she said, arching a delicate brow, “since the treaty with Braavos.”

Illyrio’s jaw ticked in unmistakable irritation and she noticed Viserys bristle too. Her brother had told her that her part in this meeting was limited to sitting quietly and looking pretty—and she knew him well enough to recognise the anger shining behind his eyes.

“In all but name, my dear,” Illyrio answered, flashing her those yellow teeth again.

“Drogo never mentioned having slaves.”

She would have remembered— _that_ was not something she would accept. She watched Viserys’ jaw tick again.

“Oh no, the Dothraki do not recognise the business of buying and selling _anything_ ,” Illyrio said, “if I’m honest with you, sweet one, they are wise where their horses are concerned, but can be utter fools about much else.”

He laughed raucously and Viserys took a moment before he released a fake laugh of his own. Daenerys tried unsuccessfully not to roll her eyes, finishing her drink and waving the cocktail waitress over. She ordered another one, told her to keep them coming, and then sunk back into her chair.

An hour and three drinks later, Illyrio was excusing himself, politely declaring that he “needed a piss” and stumbling from the table.

Viserys’ hand was on hers before she could blink. His fingers curled tightly around her own, holding it against the table, and he leaned in threateningly.

“What the fuck do you think you’re playing at?”

She blinked at him, bored. “What?”

“I told you to stay quiet.”

She arched a brow.

“So I’m to know _nothing_ about the man who will be my husband?” she seethed, matching his intensity, two dragons spitting fire, “you never told me he was some sort of fucking _horse lord._ I am _Daenerys Targaryen_ , the only daughter of one of the Five Families. _Drogo_ is nothing—a savage. I don’t want to marry him. And _Illyrio…_ I don’t like the way he touches me.”

Viserys remained eerily silent throughout her speech. He let her finish before he leaned in further, his fingers tightening around her own and his mouth at her ear. She stared straight ahead as his whiskey-stained breath brushed over her.

“Listen to me very carefully,” he started, his tone chilling, “I _will_ restore us to the most powerful of the Five Families. To do that, I need allies. I need Drogo and his Dothraki thugs. And believe me, sweet sister, I would let them all fuck you… Illyrio Mopatis, Drogo, his men and all their horses too… if that’s what it took.”

Daenerys turned her head, her gaze steely and unyielding as she looked at him.

“You disgust me.”

She wrenched her hand from his grasp.

The atmosphere blistered, awkward and tense, as Illyrio returned to the table and the idle chat began again. 

Perhaps she would regret this later, when they were back in the mansion and away from prying eyes. She could see Viserys’ hands practically trembling with the urge to strike her, but he wouldn’t dare do it here.

She wondered how he would punish her once they were home. She had been fighting back since she was around fifteen, but he was stronger than she was, and her pale skin bruised easily.

She still remembered the way she had to hold Jon back that time he noticed the marks on her body. He had picked her hand up, his brow quirking in curiosity as his eyes swept over the purplish blue fingerprints wrapping their way around her wrist. When he realised what it was, who had done it, something dark and rage-filled had flickered over his face. He had been more wolf than man in that moment and it had taken every trick she had—soft kisses on his neck, his cheeks, his brow—to stop him from going downstairs and ruining everything.

_“If you were mine,” he had said in that husky brogue, “no-one would dare put their hands on you.”_

Thinking about Jon hurt, an insistent tug in her chest, so she pushed it down.

But _then_ —

“Motherfucker.”

Her gaze snapped to Viserys and she saw his wild eyes focused on something. 

She followed his line of sight to a group of men and women by the bar. Her stomach lurched, a strange rolling sensation, when she noticed Jon amongst them. There was Robb and Margaery and another woman too, a redhead who definitely wasn’t his sister.

She was hanging off Jon’s arm as he lit up a cigarette.

He really needed to stop smoking. They both did. It was a nasty habit that was going to destroy them. The metaphor was not lost on Daenerys, even as she refused to recognise the hot sensation rolling through her as jealousy.

“Are you quite alright, Viserys?” Illyrio was speaking but she could barely hear him, “you look rather flushed.”

Viserys chugged some whiskey before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It’s just some Wolves,” he tipped his chin a little too aggressively in their direction, “I fucking hate Wolves.”

Illyrio was familiar with their story, but when Viserys recounted it, Daenerys couldn’t help but notice how he left some very important parts out.

After-all, _“the wolf bitch seduced our brother and got him killed”_ was hardly objective. There were two very different sides to the same story—and not for the first time, Daenerys cursed Rhaegar and Lyanna’s selfishness.

“Gods _,_ I wish I’d let Greyjoy come tonight,” Viserys chuckled then, his finger trailing along the edge of his whiskey glass, “I would have _loved_ to see the look on their faces when they saw him. Especially Robb fucking Stark.”

Daenerys didn’t care about Robb Stark. She didn’t care about that redhead and in the moment, she didn’t even care about Margaery. Everyone around her seemed to fade, the heat in the club pulsing and winding around her until she choked.

Jon was standing there in a white button down shirt, looking tense and solemn and for a moment, he was all she could see.

But then again, he was all she could ever really see.

She didn’t even pretend to listen as Viserys and Illyrio prattled on.

“I need some air,” she lied, standing up and taking her martini and clutch bag.

Viserys waved a dismissive hand, like he couldn’t care less, but as she walked away from the table, he yelled—

“Stay away from the dogs,” he punctuated it with a laugh he probably thought was menacing, “if I see one of their hands on you, I’ll cut it off.”

Daenerys rolled her eyes, thinking it rather late for that. A wolf already knew her body, inside and out.

She finished her martini as she walked, placing the glass on an empty table. She went outside, not bothering to pick up her coat from the cloakroom, and leaned against the wall of the club. She was a dragon, always burning too hot, and tonight was so exception. She barely felt the cold, warm where those around her shivered in the cool night air, and she reached into her clutch for her packet of cigarettes.

She held one between her glossed lips and sighed in frustration when she flicked her lighter and the flame didn’t appear. She tried again, closing her eyes with another sigh when it didn’t work.

There was a click nonetheless, the warmth of a flame in-front of her, and she opened her eyes to see Robb Stark staring down at her.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly very dry.

He was still looking at her, waiting patiently with one eyebrow arched as he held his lighter before her. As she leaned forward and saw it in more detail, she noticed there was a wolf carved into the steel. Her eyes dragged to her cigarette and she watched the flame engulf the end.

The click as he flicked it shut pierced the silence.

She noticed he didn’t have one and she fumbled in her bag.

“No,” he muttered, holding a hand out, “trying to quit.”

He sounded like Jon—all low, northern gruff—but he didn’t look like him. He had his mother’s Tully colouring, all auburn curls and bright blue eyes. With his dark features, Jon took after Ned and she found it strange—how he was the bastard, the outcast, yet he looked more like a Stark than the trueborn son.

She leaned back against the brick wall, arching a brow of her own.

“But you carry a lighter.”

“For Margaery,” he shrugged, “I haven’t been able to persuade her to give up, and she always forgets her own.”

Daenerys scoffed, thinking that a futile effort.

Margaery loved booze, cigarettes and him—not necessarily in that order, but _still._

“Good luck with that.”

His lips twitched but it wasn’t quite a smile. 

“She misses you, you know.”

His voice was gentle, reflective and soft. It washed over her like a summer breeze. Viserys always said that the Wolves were brash, crude and uncivilised. He said their ferocity was legendary, that they would rip you apart and leave nothing but pieces. He said they were unpleasant and unsophisticated.

Not like the Targaryens.

And _yet_ —

This Robb… he certainly didn’t look frenzied and wild.

He looked calm, concerned for his wife, a woman he loved very much. It was a fact already well known. Daenerys had seen them together—the way he looked at her, the way he held her—and she’d burned with jealousy.

“I miss her too,” she said because she did, and it wasn’t fair. It wasn’t fair that her relationship with Margaery had suffered because of who she was and who her husband was.

More than that, it made her feel like a hypocrite, given who warmed her bed most nights.

Robb clasped his hands behind his back and tipped his head to the side. Daenerys was struck by the odd thought that it made him look like a wolf.

“You could visit, you know,” he started, arching a brow at her disbelieving scoff, “you could _._ Perhaps not the Stark mansion. I’m sure you understand—our father wouldn’t let a Dragon into his home, not after Lyanna. But I don’t care. I wouldn’t punish you or her if you wanted to come to our house.”

“You punished Jon,” she said before she could stop it, her eyes briefly scanning their surroundings to check no-one was listening in, “you didn’t tell him about Theon because of me.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger.

“Visiting your friend, a _Tyrell_ , is different to fucking my brother,” his words were harsh but his tone wasn’t particularly unkind, just matter of fact, “my _hospitality_ can only be pushed so far—and you cannot blame us for being cautious.”

She took a drag from her cigarette, blowing the smoke away from him.

“In that case, you cannot blame me for the same.”

His _hospitality_ seemed to come with conditions and hidden loopholes… and he was still her enemy after-all.

Robb clicked his tongue, a small sound of defeat.

“Aye, that’s fair enough,” he said, “but Daenerys—can I call you Daenerys?”

She nodded, flicking some ash from her cigarette.

“I’m going to be very blunt with you,” he started, his hand coming up to stroke over his chin while he tried to find the words, “whatever is going on between you and Jon… it can't continue. You’re from different worlds. I know that may sound ridiculous—you’re from the very _same_ world—but that’s just the point. Forgive me, I don’t know you—but I know my brother. He may seem… _rough_ around the edges, brooding and unemotional, but he’s brave and he’s loyal. If he wants you, that _means_ something. It has to stop, before you both sink too deep.”

She tore her gaze away from him, rolling the cigarette between her fingers. There was smoke in her chest, a pleasant burn, but she felt his warning like a chill in her bones.

“Jon’s a big boy,” she murmured eventually, plastering a fake smile on her face, “I’m sure he can handle himself.”

“He can,” he conceded, “I just don’t want to see him hurt.”

“Like you, you mean?” she couldn’t stop herself from biting out, “forgive me, but are you not the same man who was shot at his own wedding because of a broken treaty? I’m very glad to see you alive and well, so fully recovered, but choosing Margaery came with a price. You know as well as I do it’s not that simple.”

It wasn’t _quite_ the same—Joffrey was a grade A cunt and the rivalry between the Starks and Targaryens was far older and far more bitter than the Tyrells and anyone else—but Robb’s sanctimonious preaching was starting to irritate her. Her eyes drifted to his chest, where the reminder lay in a bullet shaped scar under his shirt, and it was still a fair point. 

“Aye, it’s not,” for the first time, something dark and angry flickered behind those cool blue eyes, “but you have a choice. You can choose to walk away before it gets too serious. I couldn’t. I _loved_ Margaery.”

She bristled, her jaw clenching tight before she rather feebly insisted—

“I wouldn’t hurt him.”

A muscle in Robb’s cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw.

“I can’t see it ending any other way—for both of you. Can you?”

She couldn’t.

If she was honest with herself, she _couldn’t_ see a happy ending for her and Jon. She couldn’t see fat grandchildren in the offing, sitting on matching rocking chairs by a white picket fence as they grew grey and old. It wasn’t in the cards for them. They were criminals, their world soaked in blood, lies and deceit.

They moved too fast, burned too hot and too bright—but she couldn’t just _walk away_ either.

“This is all very serious,” she tried to laugh it off, brush it off, “whatever is happening between Jon and I… it really doesn’t warrant this much concern. It’s just a bit of fun.”

Robb arched a smooth brow. He didn’t believe that any more than she did.

“Either way… my father is not a young man,” his voice had dropped a note, husky and low, and she wondered what the relevance of that was until he continued, “when he is gone, the dynasty will fall to me. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you—I will do whatever it takes to protect my family.”

His expression was smooth and casual—but Daenerys knew a threat when she heard one.

She smiled but she knew it didn’t reach her eyes. She was finished with this conversation, the air tense and awkward between them, and her voice was guarded when she said—

“Thank you for the lighter, Robb Stark.”

She stubbed the cigarette out and he kept his distance as he followed her inside.  
  


* * *

  
Viserys and Illyrio were still deep in discussion.

They clearly weren’t missing her presence, and she didn’t particularly want to re-join them, so she walked over to the bar and ordered that cinnamon whiskey she’d been craving instead. 

She felt Jon’s presence before she saw him, the heat of his gaze like a warm blanket across her skin.

He was standing on the other side of the bar, the redhead still by his side. She was leaning in too close and speaking to him in hushed whispers, but his steely gaze was on Daenerys. His head tipped to the side and his eyes narrowed slightly, like he was trying to work her out, and he didn’t smile. Instead, his finger trailed absentmindedly around the rim of his own whiskey glass and he dragged his dark gaze back to the woman next to him.

It shouldn’t have hurt, shouldn’t have felt like a betrayal—but it did.

She took a too-large gulp of her whiskey and thought perhaps Robb Stark was right.

She would have to end this before she was in too deep.

But then, in another way, perhaps he was _wrong_ —because that time had long passed.

The redhead’s body was angled towards him and his chin was dipped to her, deep in discussion with his fingers tapping along the glass.

He reminded her of the Valerian steel that the Five Families’ daggers were made of—cool, unaffected. She wished she could be like that. She felt every emotion that rocketed through her body like hurricanes, always burning too hot, too bright.

“Long time no see,” Margaery’s voice drawled as she came to sit on the barstool next to her.

Daenerys tore her eyes from Jon, looking at her friend with a sad smile.

“I’ve missed you,” she murmured simply.

Margaery smiled but her lip trembled slightly and her eyes looked glassy.

“I really missed you,” she whispered, taking her hand, “we cannot let our families come between us.”

_Our families._

She was a wolf now and it was clear from the ring that sat on her index finger.

It was nestled next to the Tyrell rose on the middle and Daenerys idly ran her thumb over it. It was new, a wolf like Robb’s, but smaller and more feminine. It was more like the one she’d seen on Sansa Stark’s finger and she examined it more closely.

“This is beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it?”

“Are you happy?” she asked, because that was all she ever wanted for her.

“I am,” Margaery didn’t miss a beat, “I love him so much, Dany. With everything that’s happened with the Baratheons, losing their support and the Lannisters too, maybe I should feel guilty about that. But I don’t.”

“Would you do it again?” Daenerys asked, visions of the wedding, of Robb’s blood soaked chest and Margaery’s desperate sobs, searing behind her eyes, “knowing what you know… would you marry Joffrey instead?”

Margaery seemed to consider it for a moment before she shook her head.

“Obviously I wish Robb had never gotten shot… and I know he tortures himself over what happened to Bran but—” her brows pulled into a little frown, “—I can’t regret it. If I had to choose between keeping my word and never seeing him again… well, it’s not a choice at all.”

Her dark eyes drifted to the other side of the bar then, to Jon, and when she dragged them back, the implication behind them was clear.

“We don’t choose who we love.”

Daenerys averted her eyes, the words pressing too close to her chest, and she waved the uncomfortable feeling away.

“Enough talk of men,” she pouted, squeezing her friend’s hands, “let’s drink.”  
  


* * *

  
By the time Margaery insisted Daenerys join them in one of the smoking rooms out back, the one reserved for the Starks, Viserys was already passed out.

She gave a half-hearted apology to Illyrio and walked him outside, gesturing for their driver to take him home and come back for her.

“He’ll be quite alright, Mr Mopatis,” she insisted, waving off his concerns with a dismissive hand, “us Dragons never have been able to hold our liquor.”

Illyrio gave a loud laugh.

“You will have to remedy that before your marriage,” he insisted, “the Dothraki are hearty drinkers.” 

She blinked before faking a smile, the kind that felt too tight and didn’t crinkle your eyes. She tried not to flinch when he gave her a wet kiss on the cheek and said goodnight.

She walked back inside, only slightly feeling the effects of the alcohol, despite her words.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea,” she whispered to Margaery when she returned, remembering her thinly veiled talk with Robb outside, “your husband is not my biggest fan.”

The sisters had arrived too—Sansa and Arya. She’d watched Robb and Jon berate the younger for her fake ID, looking like they wanted to tear their hair out in despair when they told her to go home and she just scoffed in reply. She was a little wild, every inch a wolf, and Daenerys liked her already.

But the elder one, Sansa, she was standoffish—as icy and indifferent as her brother, but not in the same way.

“It’s alright,” Margaery tried to insist, but Daenerys wasn’t in the mood to walk into the wolf’s den tonight, to be surrounded by enemies.

She had to keep reminding herself of that. She couldn’t allow herself to forget.

No matter how dangerously close she got to Jon, he would always be a Wolf and she would always be a Dragon. It was a sobering fact, but a fact nonetheless.

She was tired and decided to call it a night. She gave a disappointed Margaery a kiss on the cheek, reminding her they would see each other the next week at Olenna’s Academy. The Academy was an establishment where the girls in the Five Families were taught etiquette lessons, how to be a _lady._

It was wildly outdated and offensive—and Olenna taught them how to be strong and powerful and cunning instead. 

She was just collecting her jacket from the cloakroom when she noticed two figures speaking in hushed whispers outside the women’s bathroom. When she looked closer, she saw the man was Jon and the woman was Sansa, and he had his hand wrapped protectively around the crook of her elbow. 

Daenerys watched her rip it out of his grasp.

“I’m _fine,_ ” she hissed through her teeth, her bloodshot eyes darting around, “just—leave it, Jon.”

Jon’s brows furrowed, his jaw clenched tight.

“Not until you tell me what’s going on.”

Sansa angrily wiped under her eye, brushing away some tears and the black smudge of mascara. She looked like she’d been crying, distraught and exhausted, and her other arm was wrapped around her middle. Her face was white and clammy, like she’d been sick, and Daenerys noted again that they were huddled outside the women’s bathroom.

“I’ve just overdone it, that’s all.”

“You haven’t been drinking.”

She gave an irritated sigh and when she rolled her eyes, her gaze settled on Daenerys.

 _Fuck,_ Daenerys silently cursed as the redhead’s icy eyes narrowed.

“Go,” she fumed, “your little mistress is waiting for you.”

Jon’s brow arched in confusion before he followed Sansa’s line of sight. His eyes focused on Daenerys and he let his sister slip past him. He ran a hand over his face when she was gone and when he dropped it back to his side, Daenerys thought he looked beautiful and sad and very, _very_ tired.

“Sorry,” he murmured, his mouth twisting solemnly.

She shrugged, wrapping her leather jacket around her shoulders.

“Doesn’t bother me,” she said and then because she couldn’t resist, she asked, “what were you arguing about?”

He paused for a beat before that shuttered expression swept over his features.

“Nothing,” he lied smoothly and took a step towards her, “walk with me?”

She knew she shouldn’t.

She should just go home and forget about this, forget about _them_. But she didn’t—because she was already a slave to his affection. She followed him into one of the back rooms of the club, like a dog—a _wolf_ —desperate for any scraps of his attention. It made her sick.

The room was depressingly predictable, all red furniture and dark, smoky lights. The click of the latch as he closed the door was deafening—and she slipped her jacket off again, already too hot.

She spoke first, wanting to reclaim the control she always felt slipping through her fingers when she was around him.

“You really love each other, don’t you?”

Jon’s expression soured, his mouth pinching in distaste. “I can’t stand her most of the time actually.”

She huffed a laugh but she wasn’t talking about Sansa.

“I mean your family in general,” she clarified, “you’re always there for each other.”

He tipped his head to the side, clasping his hands behind his back. 

“You sound surprised.”

She shrugged.

“It’s just not something I’ve ever really experienced. Viserys and I are hardly close.”

Even as she pretended not to be affected, she felt the words like an ache in her chest. Not for the first time in her life, she felt very alone.

“What about your other brother?”

Her eyes found his, her brow arching in surprise. They never spoke about Rhaegar. It felt too awkward, too close to home, and they didn’t agree over what had really happened between him and Jon’s aunt. Rhaegar and Lyanna were the reason they were destined to hate each other, why they could never be anything more than _this._

She hadn’t known him—but part of her hated him for that.

“I was baby when he died,” she said, “but Jorah said he was kind. I don’t see why he would lie. I trust him.”

Jon nodded. It was hard to throw off the shackles of your family. He had been taught one thing—that Lyanna was a victim of rape—and she had been taught another.

He didn’t argue, because there was no point—and what did it matter anyway?

She wasn’t Rhaegar; he wasn’t Lyanna.

“Who was that woman?” she asked then, folding her leather jacket over her forearm and holding it in-front of her in a lame attempt to be casual.

One corner of his mouth tipped up.

“Are you jealous?”

She remembered his reply from Robb’s wedding, spoken when she asked the very same question.

_Aye, what if I am?_

It was a tangled web they were weaving—futile and exhausting.

“Aren’t we a little past that?”

“Aye, I suppose we are,” he murmured, “her name is Ros. She’s from the North too—a friend of the Stark’s.”

“Have you fucked her?” she kept her voice steady, even as the question burned like wildfire through her veins.

He cocked a brow, his steely eyes flickering over her face.

“Yes,” he answered honestly, casually, as though he were talking about the weather, “once or twice over the years. Before.”

“Before what?”

“You.”

Daenerys faltered, her chest feeling too tight.

“There’s nothing going on,” he said after a beat, his voice smooth, “but even if there was… I’m not the one who’s engaged.”

His eyes flickered pointedly to her ring finger, where Drogo’s diamond sat. It was a delicate jewel but it felt as heavy as a millstone. The steel band felt too tight, strangling her, burning her skin. She wanted to rip it off.

“This is all becoming very complicated, isn’t it?” she said quietly.

He stepped towards her again until she could feel him, an ice that burned. She wanted to touch him, wanted to feel him, and her fingers twitched. Her hands kind of reached for him before she pulled them back. 

After-all, he was still Jon and she was still Daenerys… and neither of them truly knew what they were to each other.

“I know about Theon,” he started quietly, making her pause, “after he told them you knew, my father and Robb didn’t see the point in keeping it from me. But the fact that they _did_ , that they couldn’t trust me… you can’t imagine how that felt. My family are the most important thing in the world to me. They’re all I have.”

 _You could have me,_ the words burned on the tip of her tongue.

She swallowed past the sudden dryness in her throat.

“I didn’t tell my brother.”

“Aye, I know,” he conceded, “I appreciate that—but it’s not the point.”

She nodded. She understood. He had spent his whole life in the shadow of his siblings—an outsider, a bastard.

One time, tangled up in the sheets and each other, he had divulged how jealous he’d felt as a child. He’d said that as the years went by and more Starks arrived—Sansa and Bran and Arya and Rickon—he’d felt little parts of himself splinter away. He’d felt alone, the runt of the litter, and even being _Theon_ would be better because at least he didn’t share the blood at all. He didn’t have _half_ of them—kind of family, but not really.

He said that he wished he could look through Tully blue eyes and call Catelyn _mother_. He’d wanted to rip his inky curls out from the root. He’d wanted to be like Robb.

She supposed that was why she liked him; although she was a trueborn Targaryen, a princess, she had never felt like she fit in either.

Her father and brother were cruel, and she carried the irrational guilt of her mother dying to bring her into the world. She’d missed her terribly, a woman she’d never known, and she’d wished for her. She’d wished for her when she was learning how to put on makeup, and when she experienced her first heartbreak, and when she needed someone to tell her to be kind and brave and strong. She missed her _now,_ as she wondered what she’d make of Jon. She’d felt her absence her whole life. She’d spent most of it feeling very alone. She didn’t have many friends, her lifestyle didn’t allow it, and her only confidante was a man twice her age. 

She could understand how hard it must have been for Jon to realise his family had kept him in the dark. To realise he didn’t have their trust, when he had spent his whole life trying to prove he was worthy of it. 

His expression became guarded then, sullen and brooding, and she knew where this was headed.

He gently placed his finger under her chin, tipping it so she could meet his eyes.

There was so much between them that was left unsaid—a rare and fragile and beautiful thing.

“You make me crazy,” he murmured, one eyebrow slightly quirked, “you know that?”

She didn’t—but she knew how he made _her_ feel, and if it was even half as powerful, it really was one step away from madness.

They had been careless, on borrowed time. There was too much history there, too much resentment, and this was hurting her too. She felt like a traitor to her own blood, a silly little girl swept away by a boy.

She wasn’t a little girl.

She was a _Dragon,_ made of fire and blood, and the future of her family.

“We can’t see each other anymore.”

She said—and it wasn’t a question.

She kept her expression steady, her voice level, even as her insides screamed and shouted at the wrongness of that idea.

His mouth twitched under his beard but there was no humour in it.

“No, we can’t.”

She nodded. His thumb and forefinger still pinched her chin so she brought her hand up, her fingers wrapping around his wrist. She glanced at him under heavy lashes, her lips parting. Her eyes held an unspoken question and his own darkened, his hand moving to cup her cheek. She wasn’t sure who moved first. All she knew was one moment they were looking at each other, and the next their foreheads were touching, their mouths brushing against each other’s.

She tipped her chin and kissed him.

It was a sweet kiss, small and still, and he could probably feel her lips trembling under his but he didn’t say anything. His other arm came to wrap around her waist and she heard the dim thud of leather on carpet as her jacket slipped from her fingers. Her hand travelled to his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under her palm. He was always so bloody _calm,_ she marvelled. The ice to her fire. The careful control she kept on herself disintegrated and hot pangs of lust snapped at her heels as she opened her mouth and felt him slip his tongue inside. It slid against hers, rough and hot silk, and when it retreated, she groaned and sought it out again.

He changed the angle of the kiss, slanting his mouth over hers, and she felt the sharp scrape of his teeth on her lips.

She pulled back when she felt breathless, dragging her mouth to his ear.

“You better start walking away from me, Jon Snow.”

Under her palm, she felt his breath rumble in his chest, ragged and low, and he gave a curt nod.

He stepped away and she wanted to pull him right back, an ache where his hands once were.

She picked her jacket up, pushing her arms through it and wrapping it around her. As she walked to the door, his voice—raspy and low and so deliciously northern—stopped her in her tracks.

“Daenerys.”

She kept her back to him but her hand paused, suspended above the door handle.

“I want you,” he said simply, like he thought it was a very important thing to say, “I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you.”

She closed her eyes, swallowing past the lump in her throat, and she didn’t reply.

She just opened the door and left him behind. As she walked outside and breathed in the cool night air, she tried to brush away the ache in her chest and told herself to get a grip. 

After-all, how can you be upset over losing something you never had?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew, I’m an angsty bitch. Must be the lockdown. I do feel like this roadblock was necessary, but something tells me they won’t be able to stay away from each other for too long… 🤭


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She was already sacrificing so much; the diamond on her finger was proof enough of that.
> 
> Now, with the heat of him next to her, looking strong and handsome and calm, she couldn't remember why.

  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys still felt the effects of Viserys’ anger days after the meeting with Illyrio Mopatis.

She tried to avoid him, staying to her own quarters in the Targaryen mansion. She made sure to eat before or after he did, to only visit the library or stables when she knew he wouldn’t be there. She kept to herself because being lonely was better than being around him.

And then he took her keys away.

He took them from her Jaguar and her Mercedes, even the Rolls Royce Silver Ghost that no-one had driven in years. Her irritation bubbled in the pit of her stomach as she stood in the garage, her sunglasses on her head and her hands on her hips. Then she stormed into his study without knocking.

“Give me my keys,” she demanded, her hand outstretched.

Her brother’s eyes narrowed. Theon sat on the opposite side of the desk and he turned his head to look at her, one eyebrow arching curiously.

Viserys returned his gaze to the ledger on the desk, scribbling something on the paper.

“I don’t like you swanning off day and night—especially when I don’t know where you’re going.”

Her anger flared under her skin.

“I’m going to Olenna’s Academy, that stupid finishing class _you_ insist on me going to.”

It wasn’t a finishing class anymore, not the way most men in the Five Families thought it was, but he didn’t know that.

Surprise flickered over his features before they relaxed.

“In that case…” he paused to turn a page, his answer suspended in the air, and Daenerys rolled her eyes at his dramatics, “…take a driver.”

“I don’t need a babysitter.”

She watched a muscle near Viserys’ ear twitch as he clenched his jaw.

“Do as you’re told.”

“No.”

He closed his eyes and rolled his shoulders, his neck ticking to the side.

“Don’t push me, Daenerys.”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “Or what?”

She knew what would happen, even before he threw his pen down and stood up. Theon turned his face away from her but she registered his shoulders tense, muscles pulling taut and awkward.

Viserys’ anger detonated—but not in quite the way she expected.

“ _Rȳbagon naejot nyke ao byka aspo_ ,” he slipped into Valerian, their mother tongue, likely for privacy from Theon but also because his anger had been snapped to such a point, “ _kesā gaomagon skoros nyke ivestragon ao naejot gaomagon_.” 

Rage bubbled inside her as she matched his fire.

“ _Kesan daor,_ ” she snarled, “ _iksan daor iā riña_.”

His eyes shined wilder, specks of violet sharpened by fury.

“ _Daor yn ēva iksā drohgō līve iksā ñuhon_.”

Angry tears prickled at her eyes, burning her throat. She pulled her sunglasses down over them so he couldn’t see. She wasn’t upset, she was furious, and she _hated_ him. She told him as much, in the language of their family.

“ _Nyke vēdros ao_.”

Then she slammed the door and left her rage behind.  
  


* * *

  
“Gods, you’re awful,” Olenna Tyrell was despairing, “I wonder if you’re the worst I’ve ever seen. At a certain age it’s hard to recall, but the truly shit do stand out through the years.”

Myrcella Baratheon looked like she was going to cry, her hands trembling around the gun. She tried to aim it again, one eye screwing shut. She flinched as she pulled the trigger, reeling back and tripping on the grass. The bullet whistled past its target, splintering the bark of a tree in the distance.

Daenerys hid a snicker behind her hand, casting her eyes to the ground.

Margaery wasn’t as successful in hiding her laugh and it rang out like bells across the field.

Myrcella’s cheeks blushed furiously and Daenerys almost felt guilty. Margaery could be cruel at the best of times, cunning and shrewd, and she certainly wasn’t going to be pleasant to the sister of the man who shot her husband.

Not for the first time, Daenerys reflected on what a strange world she lived in.

There were girls from all Five Families here. Herself for the Dragons. Margaery for the Roses. Sansa Stark for the Wolves. Arya was missing; Margaery had said she refused to come, journeying to Storm’s End instead. Myrcella for the Lions and the Stags, and little Shireen Baratheon too. Even some of Oberyn Martell’s daughters were here.

These families had betrayed each other, lied and murdered each other and spilled each other’s blood for centuries. Yet here they were, gathered like they were friends, forced to smile prettily and ignore the resentment bristling and burning between them, because they all had one thing in common.

They were part of this world.

Their fathers thought they were learning how to be proper ladies. How to cook and clean and sew and be good, obedient wives. They would learn how to speak when spoken to, how to turn a blind eye to their husband’s crimes and infidelities. They would learn how it felt to be bought, silenced with pretty diamonds as they scrubbed blood stains out of crisp white shirts.

That was how it had always been—until Olenna.

She had taken over from the Academy’s owner before her, the wife of a mafia boss from the North called Mordane. 

“ _I’ve known a great many gangsters_ _in my life,_ _all very clever men indeed,_ ” she had drawled that first day, “ _I’ve outlived them all. You know why? I ignored them_.”

So they learned how to fight instead, how to defend themselves. How to hold a dagger and tie a knot and fire a gun. Though Myrcella was clearly in desperate need of some more lessons in that department.

“I can’t do it,” she whimpered, her voice sounding thick with tears.

Olenna rolled her eyes.

“Do stop snivelling, dear.”

She took the gun from her, turning it over in her hands and smoothly clicking the safety on.

Sansa Stark crossed her arms over her chest, her eyebrow arching delicately. She already looked like a mafia wife, dripping with diamonds, a delicate wolf pin shining against the flames of her hair.

Daenerys found the Wolves’ hypocrisy very interesting. They pretended they were better than the other four families, that they were noble and good, but they were filthy rich, benefitting from the mob’s lifestyle as much as the rest of them. 

“What’s the point in this?” the redhead asked, bored, “I have a father and two brothers. When am I ever going to need to fire a gun?”

She had _four_ brothers, but Bran and Rickon were just children and Robb and Jon were already two of the most formidable gangsters in Westeros.

Daenerys knew what she was getting at but still, she rolled her eyes.

“Men-folk not always around to protect the women-folk,” she said dryly.

Sansa’s eyes narrowed and her mouth twitched sarcastically, more akin to a sneer.

Olenna interrupted, her hands clasping behind her back as she moved down the line they formed. She stopped at Sansa, her head tipping to the side as her eyes flickered over her.

“You are a great beauty, Sansa Stark,” she started, twirling a strand of fiery red hair around her finger, “and your brothers very powerful men. Of course I now have the pleasure of calling one my grandson. However one day, your beauty will fade. Those bright eyes will become dull, this lovely hair flat and grey, this soft skin old and wrinkled. Your brothers are young and very good at putting bullets through people’s heads. That does not make them wise. _You_ are the future of your family—and you have more weapons in your arsenal than just what’s between your legs.”

Sansa listened intently, the words clearly affecting her. Her pale throat moved as she swallowed and gave a curt nod.

“As for you, my dear,” Olenna turned to Daenerys then, “you probably need a gun to fend off all your suitors, despite that pretty ring on your finger. Marrying a Targaryen was all the rage when I was young.”

Daenerys arched a brow; she knew this. Her family was once far more powerful than it was today. That was the very reason for Viserys’ obsession with the other four, with Theon and Drogo and all his Dothraki thugs. 

Sansa pulled her furs tighter around her shoulders. The south was far too warm for them, but she was a Wolf with ice in her veins. When they all moved inside for the next lesson, Daenerys noticed that Sansa didn’t follow.

In-fact, she disappeared completely—and she didn’t see her again until it was time to leave.  
  


* * *

  
The Academy was one of the finest buildings in Highgarden, complete with high arched windows and marbled halls.

Daenerys’ favourite room, however, was the state of the art gym, and she stayed there while the others filtered out. She took her frustration out on the treadmill, feeling her anger fade with every pounding step. It cleared her head, meant she didn’t have to think about Drogo or Viserys or Jon, even if just for an hour.

When she was done, she stepped into one of the fancy showers, piling her silver blonde hair on the top of her head. She closed her eyes and let the warm water wash over her, lathering herself with rose-scented soap. Half an hour later, she was dressed and ready to call her driver to be picked up.

She was letting her hair down, brushing her fingers through the knots, when she heard a sound.

It was a little sob, a small and pained whimper, and her brows drew into a frown.

She walked around the corner, seeking the source of the sound. When she found it, she paused, surprised and confused.

Sansa Stark was sat against the wall, her knees pulled up and her arms wrapped around them. She cried quietly, her body shaking with the force of her sobs, and Daenerys took a cautious step towards her.

She didn’t ask if she was okay—she clearly wasn’t. She just crouched until she was sat on her haunches.

Her hand kind of reached for her before she pulled it back.

“Sansa…”

Sansa’s eyes darted to her, the blue in them sharpened by her tears.

She huffed and rubbed furiously at her cheeks. It made her mascara smudge, black marks staining her alabaster skin. Her lipstick was chipped and cracked, probably from where she’d been worrying her bottom lip between her teeth, and it was strange to see her looking so dishevelled. She was normally so perfect, so put together, a proper lady.

But _now—_ she was clearly in pain, and Daenerys didn’t quite know what to do.

“I’ll um—” she stood up, brushing some invisible fluff off the dress she’d just put on, “—I’ll call Margaery.”

“No!” Sansa blurted out, her eyes darting up to her frantically, “not Margaery. Not Robb.”

Daenerys hesitated again.

“Jon,” Sansa choked the name, her sob catching on a broken exhale, “get Jon.”

 _“I can’t stand her most of the time actually,”_ Daenerys remembered his words as she blinked in confusion.

She remembered the unimpressed looks she had seen her throw at him, her mouth pinching in distaste. Jon had told her she was the only sibling who treated him like a bastard, cruel to him to appease her mother.

But _then_ —

She remembered how the Wolves loved each other unconditionally, even if they didn’t always like each other. She remembered how concerned he’d looked the other night at the club, his hand wrapped protectively around her elbow as he asked her to tell him what was wrong.

It wasn’t a relationship she could understand—but then, she supposed she didn’t have any sort of relationship with _her_ brother at all.

So she nodded and pulled her phone out.

She found the number she couldn’t bring herself to delete and tried to push down the ache that suddenly flared in her chest. She hadn’t spoken to him since that night, since that conversation that hurt far more than it had any right to.

 _I want you,_ she heard that husky brogue, caressing her skin like velvet, _I’ve never wanted anyone the way I want you._

He picked up on the third ring.

“Yes?” his voice was gruff, rough and a little impatient like he’d picked it up without checking who it was. She was glad; he might not have answered at all if he knew it was her.

“It’s Daenerys,” she said quickly, “you need to come to Olenna’s Academy, just off section three of the Roseroad.”

It was silent for a moment.

She felt, more than heard, his sigh through the receiver.

“We talked about this—”

“It’s not about us,” she bit out heatedly, her cheeks flaring under the heat of Sansa’s suspicious gaze, “it’s your sister. Sansa. She’s in trouble.”

It went quiet again before she heard some rustling and, if she wasn’t mistaken, the click of a gun.

“I’ll be there in an hour.”

The line went dead.  
  


* * *

  
It didn’t feel right to leave her, trembling and broken by the bottom of the stairs, so Daenerys waited.

Jon took forty five minutes rather than an hour, but _still_ —it was a long time to sit in silence.

They didn’t speak, but Daenerys would sometimes allow her gaze to slide to her, to the cracks on the surface of her perfect veneer.

When Jon arrived, her reaction to him was immediate. She had foolishly hoped that she’d become immune. But that hadn’t happened in the year that passed before she met him for the second time and it hadn’t happened in the last week either. He was dressed in a suit, as usual, his jacket discarded and his shirt rolled up to his elbows. She could see the strong muscles of his forearms flexing, the way his hands twitched.

She wished she didn’t know how good those hands felt on her body, touching her in the dark where no-one could see.

He rushed over to Sansa, crouching in-front of her. As he did so, Daenerys caught a flash of the Colt 45 tucked into his waistband.

He wrapped a hand around the back of her neck, dragging her forehead to his mouth. He placed a kiss there, fierce and warm, and Sansa’s eyes fell shut. The tears started again, rolling down her flushed cheeks, and Daenerys stood, putting some space between them. 

“It’s alright,” Jon soothed, his voice gentler than she’d ever heard it, “I’m here. I’ll never let anything happen to you.”

Daenerys felt her heart tug, an ache in her chest.

 _Goddamn it,_ she thought.

She never wanted to see this side of him. She wanted to think of him as arrogant and cruel, a gangster, a killer— _dangerous_. It was easier that way, easier to keep a distance. Easier to pretend it was just sex.

Now he looked soft and gentle and it only made things harder.

He drew back, sitting on his haunches.

“What are you doing?” his voice was fierce. He pinched her chin between his thumb and forefinger and forced her to look at him, “you’re in trouble, you come to me.”

Sansa pursed her lips, her brows pulled into a frown.

“I _am_ in trouble,” she whispered.

Jon frowned too, wearing a matching expression.

“What is it?”

Sansa exhaled shakily.

“I’m in _trouble,_ ” she said again, her voice thick with implication, and she tipped her head pointedly.

Daenerys understood before he did.

The penny dropped, realisation flowing through her. The way she held her stomach at the club, her pale face clammy and her mascara smudged from being sick—

_“You haven’t been drinking.”_

Jon sat back, his shoulders slumping.

"You’re pregnant,” he said dully.

It wasn’t a question.

She let out a little sob at the confirmation, like saying it out loud made it real.

From where she stood, Daenerys watched Jon’s hands curl into fists on his thighs.

“Who?”

Sansa lifted her head, staring at him through bleary eyes.

“What?”

“Who did this to you?”

She shook her head frantically, another sob caught in her throat.

“Sansa—” Jon’s voice was low, rough and dangerous, “—who did this to you?”

She wrung her hands in her lap, twisting the ring on her finger in a gesture of discomfort. Finally, she held her breath and released it, and the name, at the same time.

“Harry,” she whispered, “it was Harry Hardyng.”

Daenerys winced. She knew the name; she knew Harry. He was from the Vale, and he had a reputation. Even Margaery had been with him, once or twice. They had become friends in the years since but Daenerys never liked him, never trusted him.

“ _Motherfucker_ ,” Jon grunted under his breath, running a tired hand over his face. When he took it away and looked at his sister again, his eyes were a little darker.

He was normally quite reticent, preferring to just let things go, but Daenerys knew he could have a temper that rivalled hers—especially when it came to his family.

“Alright, come on, we’ll go talk to him—” his voice hinted at dark intent and Daenerys figured there wouldn’t be much _talking_ involved, “—the Hardyngs are good people. You’ll tell him and—”

“He knows.”

He paused.

“What?”

Sansa’s expression twisted into something tough and cynical, her tears drying up.

“He _knows_ ,” she repeated, “I told him weeks ago and he didn’t care. He said he didn’t want to be in the child’s life. He told me to get rid of it.”

“He did _what?_ ”

Something murderous flashed over Jon’s face.

She sobbed again, her hands coming up to cover her face.

“Oh god, what am I gonna do?”

“It'll be okay,” Daenerys spoke for the first time, trying to inject some positivity into the situation, “things always work out in the end.”

Clearly it was the wrong thing to say—because Sansa immediately stiffened. She slowly dragged her bloodshot eyes to her, her top lip slightly curled. Jon flinched, clearly knowing his sister and her moods. She looked at Daenerys like she hated her, her eyes icy blue and cold like the north. 

“ _Dany,_ is it?” she practically sneered, her gaze hard and unfriendly.

“Daenerys.”

“Well, Daenerys…” she started, her voice low and lined with quiet hostility, “you don’t know shit about my life—so how about you keep your mouth shut?”

“Hey.” Jon’s voice was hard, his brows pulled into a frown.

He reached out, pinching her cheeks between his thumb and forefinger and turning her face to look at him. The action made her scarlet lips form a pout, the rings he wore casting shadows on her pale skin. He forced her to keep his eyes, even as she growled like a wolf and tried to pull back.

“She’s trying to help you,” he said roughly, “have some respect.”

Sansa rolled her eyes and pushed him away. He let himself be moved, his hand suspended mid-air for a moment before it returned to his thigh.

“Will you just take me back to the house?” she whispered, “it's why I wanted you, not Robb. You’re so calm, you always make me feel calm, you always know what to do. And he—he knows Harry, they’re friends. I’m not ready to tell him. Please just—just take me back.”

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. Then his mouth twitched under his beard as he attempted a smile.

He helped her up and when they were both standing, he wrapped her up in his arms. His hand anchored her to him, wrapped up in her fiery hair, as she rested her forehead on his solid chest. From where they lay on his hips, her hands clutched the material of his white shirt in trembling fists. He placed one more kiss on her head and let her go.

She walked out first.

As Daenerys went to walk past him, he grabbed her arm, gently pulling her back.

“Thank you,” he murmured, his eyes dark and sincere.

She shrugged, feigning indifference, even as his fingers burned where they touched her skin.

“Do you have a ride home?”

“I’ll call my driver.”

He blinked before shaking his head.

“I’ll take you,” he insisted, “I just need to drop her off first.”

This wasn’t exactly staying away from each other.

She said yes anyway.  
  


* * *

  
It was late, the sun setting over the horizon and painting the sky a soft red, when they finally pulled into the drive.

They had all put their sunglasses on, shielded from the harsh final rays of the day, and Daenerys cursed him for how _good_ he looked. They were sleek black aviators, blending in to his whole look.

 _He has no business being that beautiful,_ she thought. He didn’t deserve it.

The Starks were staying at the Tyrell mansion while they visited, having been there since the wedding. She wondered when they would be going North again—she’d expected him to be gone already—but some sort of business must be keeping him here.

She knew he wouldn’t tell her, so she didn’t ask.

The engine rumbled and silenced when he parked, leaving the atmosphere a little tense. He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel for a moment before Sansa spoke.

“Jon, can you step outside for a minute?”

He blinked, his dark eyes dragging from her to Daenerys and back again. She glared at him, her eyebrow arching impatiently. She had seemed so fragile over the past couple of hours, so tearful and broken, but _this_ was the Sansa Stark Daenerys had heard so much about.

 _Everyone thinks she’s so icy,_ Jon had grumbled once, _but she’s got a fierce temper._

 _I accidentally stepped on one of her new Valentino dresses last year and ripped it,_ he’d said, _she didn’t talk to me for a month._

He blinked at her again before he relented with a sigh—because he pretended to be tough, but he was a slave to the women in his life.

He climbed out of the car and Sansa waited until she heard the click of the latch before she spoke.

“I wanted to apologise,” she said quietly.

Daenerys’ brow quirked in surprise, her eyes darting to the window where she could see Jon leaning against the car. He was striking up a cigarette, taking a drag and blowing the smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

She didn’t ask for what, because it was obvious, so Sansa kept talking.

“You helped me today,” she murmured, “you didn’t have to do that but you _did—_ and I was nothing but rude.”

Daenerys nodded, turning around to look at her from her position in the front seat. She could see her wringing her hands nervously in her lap.

“It’s alright,” she said quietly, “and I won’t tell anyone.”

She was suddenly struck by how many secrets she was keeping for the Wolves. Jon and Theon and now _this._ She wondered again about her warped loyalty and felt guilty that she _didn’t_ feel guilty. It was all very confusing.

“I don’t know why I’m this way,” Sansa’s voice cracked a little then, sounding broken, “just spoilt, I guess. I don’t mean to be.”

They all were.

She gave a curt nod and stayed quiet as she left the car. Jon waited until she was inside before he got back in.

He smelled like tobacco and pine, masculine and heady and something else that was uniquely _him._

He hadn’t finished the cigarette so he held it between his teeth as he put the car into reverse. One hand came to grip her headrest as he glanced behind him and he peeled out of the driveway.

As they drove, he kept one hand on the steering wheel and the other on his thigh.

She considered it for barely a minute before she put her hand there too. His jaw ticked but he didn’t move away.

In-fact, his fingers twitched, stretching towards her—and she held onto the little one as he drove.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys felt like she was on fire by the time they pulled into the Targaryen mansion.

It was like her skin was buzzing with an electrical current, every atom in her body vibrating at once. The air felt heavy, heady, thick with the weight of everything left unsaid. She choked under it.

They’d said goodbye, _kissed_ goodbye, accepted it could never be and _yet—_

She still wanted him.

She wanted him so badly, she was practically shaking with it.

It was silent, the atmosphere white hot between them, and she realised she was still holding his hand.

She ripped it away like he’d burned her.

He had long discarded his cigarette, tossing it out the window somewhere along the Roseroad, but he still smelled like smoke—heady and intense. His aviators were now on the dashboard, her own glasses pushed onto her head, sweeping her hair back. He’d parked slightly off the driveway and the mansion was dark, all the lights off. The windows of his sleek Bentley were blacked out anyway, awarding them a certain degree of privacy.

It felt illicit, dangerous, to be with him like this. She never had been good at following rules and she was already sacrificing _so much;_ the diamond on her finger was proof enough of that.

Now, with the heat of him next to her, looking strong and handsome and calm, she couldn’t remember why.

“You should go inside.”

His voice was low, thin with barely held restraint, and she saw his fingers flex around the steering wheel.

She shifted on her seat, felt her thighs slick as she rubbed them together.

“Why?”

His fingers twitched again.

“You know why.”

She did—but she wanted to hear him say it. Dragons didn’t just give up, they didn’t retreat. They took what they wanted.

She could only see half of his face, the strong line of his bearded jaw, the perfect slope of his nose, bathed in light from the dashboard and the lamp outside.

Something flashed over his features, shuttered and closed off, and then that disarmingly blank expression was back.

“You’ll probably want to run in and tell your brother everything you heard.”

She stiffened, her face falling.

“Excuse me?”

“You’ll have to be careful Theon doesn’t hear you.”

She knew what he was doing. He was trying to make her go away, trying to make this easier.

He was being painfully obvious about it and he didn’t mean it but _still—_

It hurt.

"I’ve never once betrayed you, even when I don’t owe you _shit,_ ” she frowned, her anger flaring, “I let Rickon go for you. I let Theon _spy_ on us without telling my brother. I had no intention of using Sansa’s condition against her. I wouldn’t be surprised if I woke up tomorrow and started growing fucking _fur,_ I’m being so disloyal.”

To her utter dismay, he _laughed._

He fucking chuckled, all husky and low, and it only stoked her rage.

"Do you think this is _funny_?” she blinked, distraught, “did Robb tell you about the little discussion we had? I haven’t let anyone speak to me like that in _years,_ and I just fucking took it.”

“Why?”

_Because I’m crazy about you._

She didn’t say it.

She didn’t say anything. She just tore her gaze away and stared stubbornly out the window.

His hand on her chin dragged her attention back to him.

His index finger was tucked below it, his thumb swiping over her bottom lip.

“Why, Daenerys?” he asked again, softer this time.

He held her gaze and she swore, the air _crackled_ between them.

It brought her defences flying up, her rage boiling over until she slipped into Valerian. He hadn’t experienced that yet, hadn’t riled her up to that extent, but now the red mist descended and she barely knew what she was saying.

“ _Ao tresy hen iā aspo. Nyke really vēdros ao. Nyke jaelagon nyke'd dōrī rhēdan ao_ —”

“English please.”

His voice was infuriatingly calm, smooth and unaffected, and her sigh was more like a growl.

“I _said—_ ” she spat, “—you’re a son of a bitch and I wish I’d never met you.”

There was a flash of white teeth as the corner of his mouth pulled into a dangerous smirk.

“Come here.”

She froze.

“What?”

His darkened eyes flittered coolly from her own to her lips and back again.

“You heard me.”

Her gaze sunk to his lap, eyes sweeping over his expensive, tailored trousers— _Tom Ford,_ if she had to guess—and she cocked a brow.

“This… isn’t exactly staying away from each other.”

“Daenerys,” he said roughly, making her shudder, “stop thinking.”

She practically _sighed_ in relief, obeying him instantly. She unbuckled her seatbelt and swung a leg over the central console, climbing into his lap. He leaned back slightly, his hands travelling to her thighs as her own flew to his broad shoulders. She felt his muscles under her palms, strong and toned from years of fighting, and desire coiled tight in the pit of her stomach.

She took a moment to sit back on his thighs and let her hands explore his chest. He was still and patient beneath her as she unbuttoned the shirt but he hissed a little when her cold hands touched his skin.

“I love your scars,” she breathed without meaning to, her fingers trailing over each one.

He raised a brow but didn’t respond, his eyes searching her face.

She didn’t know why she liked them—maybe it was the evidence of his strength, his bravery, proof that he wasn’t a pampered rich boy, but had suffered as she had suffered. Her fingers traced the angry half-crescent that curved over his heart.

She leaned in, her lips parting, but flinched back when he tried to kiss her.

A brief look of annoyance flickered over his features before he moved to claim her mouth again. She smiled, just letting their lips brush, sliding hotly but not quite connecting, before she dragged her mouth to his cheek.

He curled her silver-blonde hair around one hand and gave a little tug.

“Don’t tease me.”

She let her nose skim over his sharp cheekbone, felt the rough grit of his beard against her skin.

“You don’t like that?” she hummed, “you’re so quick to brand me a spoilt little princess… but you’re rarely told no, either. You always get what you want.”

She took his hands—strong hands, a _killer’s_ hands—and entwined their fingers. She gave them a squeeze before she let go again, her fingers trailing to the gun at his hip. She held heated eye contact as she removed it from his waistband, turning it over in her hands.

“What I want…” he muttered, his hands moving to grip her hips as he leaned in and spoke against her ear, “I want to see you use it.”

She drew back slightly at his husky tone, one corner of her mouth quirking.

“Really? That turns you on?”

“A beautiful woman with a deadly weapon?” he arched a brow, his voice deadpan, “aye, that turns me on.”

She rolled her eyes playfully, placing the gun on the passenger seat next to them and leaning in so their mouths brushed— _finally._

“You’re so predictable, Jon Snow.”

And then she kissed him.

As soon as their lips touched, she wanted to cry. It was a strange, bizarre feeling and it had only been a week—they had lasted a _week_ —but she had _missed_ him.

In this sick, feverish way, she’d missed him. 

His smell and his hands and his smiles, so rare but _blinding_ when earned. She missed the way they argued and the way he called her out on the important shit, but let the other shit slide. She missed the way he asked and was honestly interested in her opinion, and the way he’d always talk a little more after they fucked, and the way his throat moved when he smoked. She missed hearing him talk about his siblings, how he’d always protect and defend them the way Viserys would never protect her, and she missed the way he cared about her but more than that, she missed the way they cared about _each other_ —because they did.

He tasted like whiskey and the cigarette he’d smoked, rich and intense on her tongue. Their mouths slanted over each other, a push and pull. She shifted in his lap, the heat between her thighs growing unbearable, and she spread them a little wider to try and relieve the ache.

She pulled back to tug at his bottom lip, revelling in the little growl it drew from him.

He had a beautiful mouth, one that would make most women jealous, and her desire flared again at the memory of the beautiful things he could do with it. Her hair fell in a thick silver curtain around them, shielding them from the world, and his hands came up to bracket her face.

She licked inside his mouth and he kissed her in deep, wet strokes as she ground her hips against him. She felt his erection then, an insistent bulge against her aching core and she released a little moan into his mouth.

She rolled against it, felt it throb even though the layers of their clothes.

He hiked her dress up, pushing the thin fabric up her thighs. He tugged her closer, rubbing her through the damp fabric of her panties as she tipped her head back and moaned. He pushed the material aside, finding her swollen and protruding nub.

“So wet already,” he licked two fingers and returned them to her cunt, “is this all for me?”

Her hips arched as he found her clit, the tip of his wet finger circling it teasingly.

“Only you,” she gasped, pushing her cunt into his hand, even as her diamond ring glinted shamelessly on her finger.

He stopped the teasing, those two fingers spreading her wetness before he pushed them inside. Her heated inhale caught in her throat as she lifted her hips, her knees bracketed on the seat either side of his thighs as she began to ride his fingers.

His other hand curled around her neck, bringing her face closer to his, dark eyes blazing.

He alternated between circling her clit and thrusting his fingers inside her, gently crooking them and finding that spongy spot that made her gasp. He flicked her clit, put pressure against it, her stomach clenching against him. Her eyes were hooded, her tongue brushing his mouth when it peeked out to wet her bottom lip, and she could feel him so hard underneath her, it _must_ have been painful.

His voice was rough when he finally spoke, penetrating the hot and heavy silence.

“I could never stay away from this sweet cunt.”

She moaned in reply, a little sob of pleasure. She could hear the lewd sounds of his fingers fucking her, the aggressive rustling of clothes as his elbow moved, but save for some heavy breaths, they didn’t make another sound.

Not even when she came.

Her mouth opened in a silent scream, her head tipping back as her orgasm raced through her blood. It sparked heat through her entire body, made her shake and tremble on top of him, and he rode her through it. His thumb rubbed gentle circles on her hypersensitive clit until she shuddered and pushed him away.

He pulled his fingers from her and licked them clean. He then casually wiped them on his expensive trousers.

She sat back on his thighs, her body arched and her elbows leaning on the dashboard, as she came back down to earth.

His hand trailed up her sternum, his palm resting over her breast.

“I haven’t done that since I was sixteen either,” he chuckled, referencing what he’d said when she’d snuck him out of her window.

She huffed a laugh, pulling herself forward until her forehead rested on his. She supposed being fingered in the driver’s seat of a car did remind her of her teenage years, but there _was_ something a little juvenile in the way they couldn’t keep their hands off each other.

It was desperate, messy, uncontainable.

She both loved it and reviled it, regretted it and didn’t, wanted to walk away and wished she could do it all over again. 

His awkward shifting brought her back to reality. He was adjusting himself with a slight wince and she pursed her lips in amusement. Her hands flew to his trousers, flicking the button open and pulling down the fly. She slipped her hand in, finding the slit in his boxers too and gripping his rock hard cock.

He bowed his head, a little grunt falling from his lips.

She squeezed the throbbing length, feeling it thicken and grow even more in her hand. Her thumb swiped over the sensitive head, making him hiss, as she spread the precum that had beaded there down his length. She was just reaching some semblance of a rhythm when there was an abrupt knock on the window.

“Shit,” she bit out, her hand flying out of his pants.

She turned her head to see Jorah’s stern face frowning through the glass. He couldn’t see them, _thank god,_ but she could see him and she reluctantly pulled back.

Jon groaned, burying his face in her chest.

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”

His frustration was muffled but very clear—and she gave his head a sympathetic pat.

She slid back into the passenger’s seat and glanced into the rearview mirror. She grimaced at her appearance, dishevelled and well-fucked, and tried to comb her hair into some semblance of normality. His kisses had smeared her lipstick over her mouth and she fixed it with a finger before swiping his own lips with her thumb. She pursed her lips as she caught him readjusting himself again.

She rolled the window down, beckoning Jorah to that side of the car.

“Viserys is inside,” he grumbled, his eyes shining with disapproval as they flickered from her to Jon, “you’re being too obvious, Princess.”

She felt her cheeks heat as she grabbed her bag from the backseat and stepped out of the car.

Jorah took a step back, his boots crunching on gravel, and Daenerys caught Jon’s side of the car again.

“I’ll see you around,” the corner of his mouth quirked, lips pulling over straight, white teeth as he slipped his dark sunglasses over his eyes, “ _Princess_.”

It was sarcastic, playful and teasing in a way he rarely was, and she rolled her eyes. He pressed a button and disappeared behind his blacked out window.

She watched as he peeled out of the driveway, his sleek car slipping through the iron gates, and then she followed Jorah inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two have as much self control as me when I told myself this would only be a oneshot 🤦🏼♀️ I took some of Olenna's lines from the show because, let's face it, she's a savage and we love it 🔥
> 
> Translations (just from a Valryian translator on google so could be wrong but you get the gist):  
>  _Rȳbagon naejot nyke ao byka aspo _\- "listen to me, you little bitch"__  
>  _Kesā gaomagon skoros nyke ivestragon ao naejot gaomagon _\- "you will do as I tell you"__  
>  _Kesan daor. iksan daor iā riña _\- "I will not. I'm not a child."__  
>  _Daor yn ēva iksā drohgō līve iksā ñuhon _\- "No but until you are Drogo's whore, you are mine." _ _____  
>  _Nyke vēdros ao _\- "I hate you."__


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Just a way to scratch an itch, hmm?” he murmured with an arched brow, reminding her of the words she had spoken on their first night together, “careful Daenerys Targaryen… if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had feelings for me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please forgive any mistakes - this is, as always, unbeta-d and it's late. Enjoy!

* * *

  
“What were you like as a child?”

Her voice was quiet, introspective, as she propped her chin on his chest. She wasn’t sure why she asked it—her tongue had been relaxed and loosened by two orgasms—and it felt important to know.

Jon made a little grumbling noise from the back of his throat, as though he had been miles away. Tipping his chin forward, his brow quirked slightly as he found her gaze.

She trailed her fingers down his sculpted chest, pausing to trace the raised skin of a long-healed scar on his hipbone. The pad of her index finger flitted over the damaged flesh and his eyes followed the movement. She rested her hand on his chest again and felt the even patter of his heartbeat.

His eyes were dark, cloudy, those impenetrable walls flying up.

“It’s getting late, hmm?” he hummed eventually, stroking some hair away from her face. His voice was quiet but his chest rumbled under her palm. She laid her arms over it again, resting her chin on her forearm, and glanced up at him.

“You always try to distract me when I get too close.”

His mouth twitched under his beard, his fingers dancing a path down her naked spine. The sheets were tangled and pooled at her lower back, her breasts squashed against him. 

“It’s working, isn’t it?” he asked in that unbearably low, smooth tone.

 _Yes,_ she thought as his hand travelled to her ass and he gave it a squeeze. 

“No,” she lied, “tell me about baby Jon.”

He huffed, tilting his chin away slightly.

“What do you want to know?”

She smiled triumphantly.

She wracked her brain and realised she already knew a lot about him—more than she realised. _Too much,_ probably. She knew he said Robb was his favourite but it was actually Arya and that he adored his father but he resented him a little too. She knew the make of his gun and the name of his favourite beer and how he got that scar above his eye. She knew that he was only fourteen when he lost his virginity and the songs he used to sing Rickon to get him to sleep and the taste of his mouth.

She knew all the little things that made him _him,_ so she simply asked—

“Were you happy?”

He looked at her a little strangely, like he wasn’t expecting that question.

“I suppose,” he shrugged after a beat, “happy enough.”

She arched a brow pointedly and waited for more.

He blinked before he let out a little frustrated sound. He preferred to be reticent, brooding and reserved, but she wanted to know. She was irritatingly, deeply enthralled by him.

“It was hard being a bastard,” he admitted, even as it looked like the words had been dragged from him against his will, “we’ve spoken about this before.”

They had, so she didn’t push it. She knew how he’d felt; different, an outsider. She’d felt the same—the difference was that he had been safe and happy and loved.

“At least you had a family who loved you,” she said quietly, “I only had my father and Viserys—not exactly great company.”

His hand came up to tuck a stray strand of silver hair behind her ear and his smile was strangely gentle.

“I think you turned out fine.”

She blinked at him for a moment before she huffed a laugh at his modest vocabulary. She tried not to be arrogant, had never cared too much about it, but she knew she was beautiful. She had the striking Valerian features that her family were famous for, and she had been told as much her entire life. 

“I’ve been called many things…” she started, her fingers coming up to his face as she gently traced the lines of his full mouth, “…I think only a northerner could call me _fine_.”

Her fingers followed the movement of his lips as they tipped into a lopsided smile.

“Aye, you prefer all that fancy talk?” he asked, the words laced with something akin to amusement, “your hair shining as fair as winter’s snow, how easy it is to fall into the ocean blue of your eyes…”

A laugh bubbled from her lips as she touched her forehead to his chest. Her body shook with the force of her chuckles before she looked at him again and shook her head.

“You are no poet, Jon Snow.”

He grumbled, gathering her up in his arms and rolling them over until he was covering her body. He was all marble, strong and smooth, and she bracketed him between her hips. The movement caused the sheets to fall off them, fluttering to the floor like a veil between them, ripped away. She was still wet between her thighs, her cunt well-fucked and swollen, a mess of her own juices and his drying cum, and warmth flared between her legs again.

He mouthed at her neck. “Aye, I’m not. But I’m honest and I’m real and I’d never lie to you.”

It was a simple statement, not meant to flatter or persuade. There was no mention of money or diamonds or flowery promises of forever—but somehow, it meant more.

As he kissed down her neck, a thought sparked through her mind.

He couldn’t lie to her.

But he also couldn’t _be_ with her. He couldn’t introduce her to his father and shake her brother’s hand. He couldn’t buy her dinner or take her dancing or on a sunny stroll through the park. He couldn’t ask her out on a date. But they couldn’t stop either. They had tried and it didn’t work; they were too far in each other’s orbits, inextricably linked.

“You’re worrying again,” he murmured into the hollow of her throat.

She swallowed, shaking her head with a sigh.

She ran her fingers through his loose curls, scratching his scalp slightly and making him lean into her touch.

“Sorry,” she whispered, “tell me more—have you always been so brooding?”

She needed to hear him speak, needed his rough brogue to pour over her like honey and drive the restless thoughts away.

She felt the curve of his mouth against her neck.

“Yes,” he rumbled, “like my father. Like _his_ father before him—like my kids after me, I’m sure.”

She froze, her mouth dry and her chest too tight. The ache intensified as images seared unbidden through her mind. She saw a fiercely stubborn little girl with stormy grey eyes and silver hair, _his_ eyes and her temperament. She saw a little boy as the opposite, all calm energy with dark curls and striking blue eyes.

She didn’t realise how her body had reacted until he was speaking. 

“Oh, you like that?” his voice had dropped a note, his brow arching as his darkened gaze flickered pointedly from her eyes to between her legs and back again.

Her cheeks burst into heat, a fire erupting between her thighs.

“No,” she uttered a harsh breath, trying to avert her gaze.

“I think you do,” he murmured, his fingers slipping between her legs. He circled her throbbing clit teasingly with one finger before pushing two inside. When he pulled them out, they were coated in the silvery-slick substance of their mixed cum, and he pushed his seed back inside her, “I think you like the idea of carrying my babies.”

Her skin was ablaze, the words causing a violent shudder to trace down her spine.

But what good did it do to dream of things that could never be hers?

She felt an odd stinging sensation behind her eyes and she screwed them shut. 

“Jon, stop.”

Her voice was harder then, lined with finality.

He paused before he gave her a small kiss on her mouth, his thumb rubbing the side of her jaw.

“Just a way to scratch an itch, hmm?” he murmured with an arched brow, reminding her of the words she had spoken on their first night together, “careful Daenerys Targaryen… if I didn’t know any better, I’d say you had feelings for me.”

It was said with a chuckle, his voice light-hearted, and before, she might have laughed.

The idea of it—falling in love with a _Wolf_ —would have been absurd.

Now, with a strange ache in the pit of her stomach, Daenerys didn’t find it so funny.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys flinched as the crystal tumbler whistled past her head, shattering on the wall behind her.

It was the second one Viserys had smashed in the last few months and she briefly sympathised with the poor maid who would have to clean it up. Theon stiffened too, his fingers tapping an uneven rhythm on the desk in-front of them.

“How the _fuck_ did they know?”

He was standing, his hands running frantically through his silver hair, his eyes wide and unblinking. He had always been unhinged, a touch of the famous Targaryen madness in him, but now he looked positively insane. The stress of power had pushed him even further into the abyss and he saw enemies everywhere.

With herself and Theon in the room, however, she supposed he was right.

His plan to raid the Lord’s Vault at Highgarden had failed, their men intercepted by the police and thrown in jail. They’d been waiting for them, had them cornered, and Viserys suspected the Wolves.

Daenerys certainly hadn’t said anything which meant there was only one culprit—and her eyes shifted to Theon.

So did her brother’s.

“ _You_ ,” he seethed, “perhaps I was wrong to trust you. You’ve given me _nothing_ of use against these filthy northerners and now _this._ You better start coming up with an excuse pretty fucking fast.”

To his credit, Theon remained calm.

“You had me searched when I arrived,” he started cooly, his tone clipped and a little practiced, “you took my phone away and your men watch me like a hawk. I have no way of contacting the Starks. You are surrounded by people you can’t trust, men who remember your father and the bad decisions he made. Perhaps you should consider them.”

Viserys’ jaw ticked, his nostrils flaring with anger. Daenerys knew Theon’s true intentions and she knew he had given the tip off. It had to be him—but he was so persuasive even _she_ wondered if he could be telling the truth.

He flashed his wild eyes to her.

“Skoros nūmāzma ao jorrāelagon mandia?” he snarled before flitting into English again, “given how _cosy_ you are with Margaery Tyrell—perhaps _you_ tipped her off. Perhaps _you_ are the traitor.”

She _was_ a traitor in many ways—but in this, she was innocent.

“Daor,” she said smoothly, “īles daor nyke.”

He walked around the desk, his fingers twitching at his sides. Her blood ran cold, a sickening feeling sweeping over her skin. She knew that look. She was about to feel the brunt of his anger, punished for things she had no control over. Her back stiffened in the chair, her jaw clenching until it ached.

When he reached her, he grabbed her chin, forcibly making her look at him. She registered Theon stiffening next to her too but he didn’t move.

She glared up at him, their matching eyes held in a battle of stubborn wills.

“I _will_ find out who betrayed me,” he warned lowly, “in the meantime, we need allies more than ever. We’re losing our footing. You will marry Drogo as soon as possible—next month. I will write to him.”

She blinked, her mouth running dry.

“You’re pathetic.”

He dropped his hold on her chin like she’d burned him.

“Excuse me?” his voice was deathly low but it didn’t phase her. Maybe it was age, maybe it was experience, but she found she wasn’t scared anymore. She wasn’t a child, unable to defend herself, letting him beat her and abuse her whenever their father wasn’t looking—just because he could.

She saw him for what he was, stupid and weak, and there was a hole where her fear had once been.

“Every time you have a plan… you manage to fuck it up,” she raged, “and then you blame someone else for it. Now you want _me_ to save this family, _again,_ by marrying a man I barely know. Again _,_ it falls to me and you’re as _useless_ as ever.”

She felt the cold sting of his hand across her face before she could react, the steel of his ring cutting into her lip. The force of it sent her out of her chair, landing on the cool, hard floor, and her anger burst like wildfire through her veins.

He grabbed her arm and dragged her up again and Theon was standing now too. Before either men could say anything, she had a shard of glass from the smashed crystal tumbler pressed up against Viserys’ throat.

She felt a sick thrill shudder through her as her brother’s eyes flashed with fear.

“Don’t touch me,” she seethed, pressing the glass just hard enough for it to break the skin, “I will _not_ be used as your punching bag anymore. I am not yours to abuse every time you feel an emotion _you_ can’t handle.”

A tiny trickle of blood ran from his neck and for a brief, unsettling moment she wondered if she could really do it. In the blink of an eye, she could swipe that shard across his skin like wire through clay, watch his life flash before his panicked eyes as he clutched at a throat dripping crimson, and it would all be over. She would be in charge. She could reclaim control of her family and her life. Never again would she be betrayed or sold or made to feel worthless. She could make sure he would never hurt her ever again.

But she couldn’t.

He was cruel and weak and afraid—but he was her brother still.

More than that, she was _better_ than he was.

“You cannot talk to me like that,” he insisted in a screech, his face turning bright red, “you dare to wake the dragon? I am the _dragon_!”

He raised his hand but she slapped it away and took a step back.

She dropped the shard of glass, barely registered Theon’s quirked brow and wide eyes and spat—

“So am I.”  
  


* * *

  
“That was badass.”

Theon murmured, his tone impressed, as she sat on the kitchen counter and he dabbed at her lip.

When he brought the cloth away from her face, she could see it stained red before he tossed it in the sink next to her. She swiped her tongue over her bottom lip and could still taste a faint metallic tang.

“Thank you.”

“No problem,” he shrugged, “had my fair share of split lips.”

She huffed a laugh, absentmindedly running her palms up and down her thighs. From where he stood in-front of her, he lifted her chin and surveyed the damage.

“Your cheekbone is going to bruise,” he said, all matter of fact, “you should put ice on it.”

He didn’t wait for her response, merely walked over to the freezer and grabbed a packet of peas. He handed them to her and she held the bag against her face.

He looked at her again, his mouth pinching in distaste.

“What?”

“Jon’s gonna kill me.”

Of all the things she expected him to say, _that_ wasn’t one of them, and she quirked a brow.

“Why?”

“I should have protected you,” he grumbled, “he’s going to be angry I let Viserys do that to you.”

“You didn’t _let_ him do anything,” Daenerys insisted, “it wasn’t about you. Viserys has been abusing me long before you or Jon came around. It’s about time I fought back. Besides, Jon doesn’t own me.”

It was Theon’s turn to quirk a brow and his lips twitched into a small smirk.

“Ooh, touchy…” he teased, “it’s not a crime to need someone, you know.”

He took a step back, putting some distance between them, and ran a hand through his hair. She blinked, considering his words, and her face started to go numb from the ice. She shifted the bag slightly, clearing her throat.

“I can’t need Jon,” she said quietly.

“And yet you do,” Theon’s voice was just as soft, “and he needs you too. He asks about you, you know. I doubt even _he_ knows how much.”

“He does?”

“He doesn’t trust Viserys— _obviously_ ,” he scoffed, “and he asks if you’re safe.”

Daenerys felt a warmth in her chest, one that had no right to be there, and she wondered again at what a complicated game they were playing.

_Just a way to scratch an itch._

“What happened to ‘having no way to contact’ the Starks?” she probed, one eyebrow arching pointedly.

“Your brother and his guards aren’t very smart,” he said dryly, “ _you_ manage to sneak a Wolf in and out of your bedroom window; slipping a burner phone to me wasn’t exactly difficult.”

“It _was_ you then.”

He lifted his chin slightly, a little tick to his jaw.

“That bothers you?”

“Of course it bothers me,” she huffed, “I’m a Dragon… and a traitor.”

She felt a wave of hot guilt roil over her. Despite who warmed her bed at night, who she was talking to right now and the redheads she comforted in moments of weakness, she was _not_ a Wolf. She was not a northerner. She was a Targaryen with fire in her veins—blood of old Valyria, of the dragons and the gods.

She felt torn in two, tiny shards of her slipping away.

“Blind loyalty is not always a good thing,” Theon said quietly and she thought it a strange assertion; in their world, loyalty was everything, “you know your brother is not a good man. He hurts you and tries to sell you—maybe he is the betrayer.”

She averted her gaze, now grateful to have the bag of peas against her skin to cool her blush, and she thought about something he had said before; it was something that had been bothering her.

“You said I wasn’t the first one to fall under Jon’s spell,” she said, “what did you mean?”

He grimaced a little, like he shouldn’t have said that.

“It’s not a big deal,” he tried, “Jon… he doesn’t really date, but he did have a girl once. He loved her very much—but she didn’t fit into our world either and Ned didn’t exactly approve.”

Jealousy kicked at her stomach like a mule and she almost rolled her eyes at the predictability of it. She knew Jon had been with other women, probably _many_ women, as she had been with other men. But the idea of it still didn’t sit right with her and she rolled her shoulders, placing the back of peas down on the counter. A dull ache whistled through her cheekbone as the cold air met her icy skin.

“What was she like?”

“That’s probably a question for him, hmm?”

She narrowed her eyes, pouting slightly, but she understood. As she sat back, something strange flickered over Theon’s face and he shifted, like he wanted to ask something but didn’t quite know how.

Eventually, he cleared this throat.

“Sansa…” the name sounded hoarse, a little painful, and Daenerys raised a surprised brow, “Jon told me—do you know if she’s okay?” 

He tripped over his tongue, the words lodging in his throat. She _didn’t_ know particularly. The redhead wasn’t exactly a regular fixture in her and Jon’s conversations, and she was more interested in Theon’s reaction. He looked uncomfortable, shifting on his feet, and his cheeks were tinged pink.

It took her a moment to realise what that look was.

“Are you asking about her the way Jon asks about me?”

She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed.

“I should go,” he tried to avoid the question, his face turning an even darker shade of red, “keep the pressure on that.”

He handed her the bag of peas back and left her alone in the cold, dark kitchen.  
  


* * *

  
“Wider,” Jon said, using his feet to kick her legs apart, “your hips and feet should be shoulder width apart.”

He stood behind her, his hands coming to rest on her hips.

“Bend your knees,” his voice was at her ear, husky and low, and she obeyed as though under a spell. The gun in her hands felt cool and smooth. She felt powerful. She narrowed her eyes and squinted at her target, a faceless man with circles on his head and chest. 

She felt, more than heard, his throaty chuckle.

“Try to keep both eyes open.”

She rolled them before she did, staring at the target, her finger tightening against the trigger.

“Off,” he rumbled, his left hand staying on her hip and his other coming to her hand. He gently covered her finger with his own, “keep this off the trigger until you’ve made a conscious decision to shoot.”

She relaxed her grip and let him manoeuvre the finger to outside the trigger guard.

His hands went back to her hips, gripping her loosely, and she tried not to be distracted. It was difficult when she could feel him surrounding her, all smoke and whiskey and pine, and she fought the urge to lean into him. She knew the basics, had fired a gun before at Olenna’s Academy, but she’d never used it on a person. She’d never had to. Now, with danger around every corner and no longer willing to just let a man save her, she wanted to learn for herself.

She’d gotten a few good shots in, around the outer circles, but she was yet to hit anywhere that would cause serious damage.

“Ready?” he asked again, his warm breath washing over her.

“You’re distracting me.”

She felt the curve of his mouth against her ear, the way his fingers tapped a little pattern on her hips before he stepped back.

She aimed, took a breath, and pressed the trigger.

The explosive sound of the gun firing caused a flock of birds to take flight from a nearby tree, tiny wings flapping in the wind.

The recoil still took her off guard. She flinched back slightly and when she opened her eyes again, she saw she had hit the cardboard man’s shoulder. 

She let out a noise of frustration, a little growl from the back of her throat, and clicked the safety on. Then, she shoved the gun into his chest.

“It’s too difficult.”

She narrowed her eyes at the amused expression on his face, all quirked lips and raised brows. With an ease that came from years of practice, he flipped the gun over in his hand, turned and fired four quick shots.

Three landed right in the centre of the bullseye on the target’s chest; the last left a smoking hole in its head.

“Show off,” she grumbled as he tucked the weapon into his waistband.

He smirked and wrapped his fingers around her wrist, gently tugging her to him. She tilted her chin to look at him, at the unreadable expression on that stoic face, and leaned into his touch.

“There are a great many things I could teach you,” he said, all husky and low, his voice thick with implication. Her mouth twitched, her hands resting on his chest, and when he leaned in, she met him halfway.

It was a small kiss, the kind that didn’t have a purpose, wasn’t leading to anything—it was just touching for the sake of touching, being close for the sake of being close. He didn’t even deepen it, didn’t coax her lips open and sweep his tongue inside to taste her.

It was nothing and everything all at once, chaste but incredibly intimate.

“I have a confession to make,” she whispered against his mouth when he pulled away. He kissed her again before he took a step back, letting her go.

He waited as she slipped a hand in the back pocket of her jeans. When she held her hand out, his ring was in her palm, the snout of the wolf staring up at them.

He quirked a brow, his gaze sliding slowly from her hand to her eyes.

“I don't know why I didn't tell you,” she explained quietly, “I should have given it back.”

She extended her hand and waited for him to take it.

After a beat, she shrugged.

“Keep it.”

An incredulous scoff burst from her lips.

“I can’t. Viserys has already caught me with it once.”

“So don’t go flaunting it in-front of him."

She felt stupid standing there with her hand outstretched so she returned it to her side, gripping the ring lightly in her fist.

“It’s too risky,” she shook her head, “he could search my room, he could find it.”

“Don’t keep it in your room then,” he said, “keep it with you.”

She stared at him, blinking in confusion.

“What, so I should just _wear_ it?” she laughed in disbelief, unsure what he was getting at.

As she played with it between her fingers, the symbolism of the ring wasn’t lost on her. It stood for everything she couldn’t have, everything that she held in her hands—so close but so far. It could slip through her fingers at any time.

His expression was frustratingly unreadable— _the same_ —as he started to unbutton his shirt.

“What are you _doing_?”

He didn’t answer. He just undid the top two buttons and reached for the chain he wore underneath. It was simple, not ostentatious or gaudy or flash. He lifted it over his head and held it between his fingers. He toyed with it idly for a moment, as though considering something, before he gently took the ring from her.

He unclasped it, slipped the ring through the chain, and held it before her.

Her eyes widened when she realised what he meant to say.

It swung like a pendulum between them, heavy with significance.

“Jon…”

He couldn’t be serious… but he _was._

“I want you to," he said simply.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, her chest feeling too tight as she slowly turned around and lifted her hair. He draped the chain around her, silent as he clicked the clasp. It felt heavy over her heart, her trembling fingers tracing over it, and she couldn’t think. She couldn’t even _breathe._

She filled her lungs with his kisses instead.  
  


* * *

  
Watching through the window, Robb Stark crossed his arms over his chest.

His brows drew into a frown, a worried expression written on his face as he watched his brother place that chain around the Dragon’s neck. This was bad news, it could never end well, and he ran a tired hand over his face.

He barely registered two arms snake their way around his waist from behind.

“What's wrong?”

He hummed slightly in acknowledgement, his brow quirking as he turned his face to the side. He couldn’t see her but he could feel her, soft and kind and warm like home.

_His wife._

Months later and the word still felt strange on his tongue.

He returned his gaze unblinkingly ahead.

Margaery sighed, her arms tightening around him, as she followed his eye-line.

“I know this must be difficult for you,” they were in Highgarden, _her_ home, not the North. It was up to her if she wanted to have a Dragon in her family grounds, but she knew it was hard for him nonetheless, “but they can’t help it any more than we could.”

He sighed, the palm of his hand coming to slide over the back of hers, his fingers gently gripping her wrist.

“We were in love,” he argued gently, “you think they’re in love?”

She shrugged.

“I _think..._ I’ve never seen Dany this way,” she said quietly, “she lights up when he’s around.”

Robb sighed again, holding her a little tighter.

“I’ve known Jon my whole life. I’ve known every crush, every girlfriend. And I’ve never seen him look at any of them the way he’s looking at her right now. Not even Ygritte.”

He felt her smile as she pressed her cheek against his back.

“Just leave it, my love,” she murmured after a beat, her tone lined with characteristic amusement, “you're never getting between those two.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Skoros nūmāzma ao jorrāelagon mandia - "What about you, dear sister?" 
> 
> Daor. īles daor nyke - "No. It was not me."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If I’m yours, you’re mine.”
> 
> It was a push and pull between them, a dangerous game soaked in blood, and she wasn’t willing to bend.
> 
> He chuckled, something low and deep.
> 
> “Aye, I suppose I am.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This might be the smuttiest chapter yet and I'm not sorry about it.

* * *

  
“What are you wearing?”

Daenerys laughed, surprised to hear those stereotypical words from his brooding mouth. She laid back on the bed, clutching the phone to her ear, and let her thighs fall apart.

“Really?” she said, deadpan, “you’re going with that line?”

“You can’t beat the classics.”

She settled into the pillows, realising it was somewhat irrelevant. Just the sound of his voice got her going, that rumbling northern burr. He could start reciting the history of the Seven Kingdoms and she’d probably be panting within minutes.

He was still waiting for her answer; she could hear his patient breaths through the phone.

“I’m wearing a silk camisole.”

“The pink one?”

She glanced down as though the colour might have changed.

“Yes,” she said, feeling the silk under her fingers as she drew her hand across her stomach.

“I like that one.”

She arched a brow, a smirk tugging at her lips.

“You do?”

“Aye,” he replied in a throaty rumble.

He was asking something else before she could reply.

“Are you wearing my ring?”

She swallowed thickly, her hand trailing up to her neck. She fingered the ring that lay there, absentmindedly pulling it back and forth through the chain.

“Yes.”

He made a small, low sound of appreciation.

“I think I like that even more.”

She felt a warmth erupt in her chest, spreading through her bones until it pooled in the pit of her stomach.

“I like it too,” she answered softly—because she did.

“Take your clothes off,” he rumbled then, his voice dark and a little possessive, “I want it to be the only thing you’re wearing.”

The warmth morphed into desire, sparking from the tip of her toes. She felt it between her legs—a dull, pulsing ache—and she shifted on the bed. When her thighs rubbed together, they felt wet, slick and warm.

She did as she was told, placing the phone down on the pillow next to her as she stripped her clothes. When she was finally naked, his patient breathing in her ear, the sheets felt cool on her flushed skin.

The steel wolf rested between her breasts, above her heart, and the symbolism wasn’t lost on her. Moonlight streamed in through the window, glinting ominously off Drogo’s diamond on her nightstand. She’d taken that off easily—she didn’t wear it when she was alone, when no-one was around to see—but the thought of not wearing Jon’s made her ache.

It was all very confusing and she knew they should have stayed away from each other—

 _Stop thinking,_ the memory of Jon’s voice rumbled in her ear.

_You’re worrying again._

—but how _couldn’t_ she worry, when she knew this could only end in tears?

"Okay,” she whispered nonetheless, “they’re off.”

“Good girl,” his voice was husky and low, sending a shiver down her spine. Her hand rested on her lower stomach, her fingers twitching to slip between her legs.

Her breath must have caught because he was speaking again, that deep voiced lined with amusement.

“You like that?” he asked quietly, “you like being my good girl?”

She pursed her lips to hold back a whimper.

“Tell me, Daenerys,” he ordered and she couldn’t hold it back then. She loved the way he said her name, how sinfully his tongue wrapped around it. No-one said it quite like he did. “Tell me who you belong to.”

The question surprised her, her hand tightening around the phone. It felt like too much, pressing too close, burning too bright. It still scared her, to breathe life into this thing between them, to admit it was something more and something _real._ The fact that he was far away from her—returned to the North—and yet they _still_ couldn’t cut each other off was testament to that.

“If I’m yours, you’re mine.”

It was a push and pull between them, a dangerous game soaked in blood, and she wasn’t willing to bend.

He chuckled, something low and deep.

“Aye, I suppose I am.”

His reply sparked heat between her legs, intensifying the ache.

“How would you show me, if you were here?” she asked quietly, unable to help herself.

He let out a little hum, half contemplative, half amused.

“With my mouth, at first,” he replied cooly, “I know how much you like my mouth between your thighs.”

She did. He was unbearably talented with his tongue, able to wring her pleasure from her within minutes. She liked the sounds he made, the thick little growls from the back of his throat, the pleased grunts, the heated groans when she came and he had to sling an arm over her lower stomach to keep her still. He would always lick at her until she was sated, until she had to push his head away, buzzing from oversensitivity. He ate pussy like he was made for it, like it was as much for his benefit as it was for hers.

“Almost as much as I like sucking your cock,” she fired back boldly, heat crawling over her body at the little growl it drew from him.

There was some shuffling on the other end, like he was getting comfortable.

“I wish I was there,” he said lowly, “I know how wet you are, just thinking about my tongue on your cunt. Nothing gets me hotter than those little noises you make, the way you pull my hair and beg for more.”

Her fingers were dancing down her abdomen before she even knew it, slipping between her thighs where she found the evidence of how his words affected her. She was dripping already, her inner thighs shining with glistening wetness.

“Never cut it,” she breathed out, thinking about his beautiful dark curls.

She felt his little chuckle in her ear.

“Aye, never,” he confirmed and she knew he never would anyway.

 _He’s never met a girl he likes more than his hair,_ Theon had rolled his eyes and smirked once.

He was murmuring his orders again.

“Touch yourself,” he commanded, sending a shiver across her skin, “tell me how it feels.”

She sighed in relief, her fingers drifting straight to her clit. She gathered some wetness from her entrance and spread it, using two fingers to stroke herself. Lust crawled up her body, starting in the tip of her toes until it felt like it was strangling her. Her chest felt too tight, the pleasure not as strong as it would be if he were there, but pleasant nonetheless.

“Good,” she breathed, “it feels good.”

She heard some rustling again, the faint sound of a zipper. Her throat felt too dry when she realised what it was.

“Are you…” she trailed off, her fingers toying idly, “…doing it too?”

“Aye, my cock’s so hard for you.”

“Fuck.”

She could practically _see_ his smirk. “That’s the idea.”

Her breasts felt tight and heavy and one hand trailed to them. She pinched a nipple and imagined his hands instead—stronger, bigger, calloused from years of holding a weapon. She dipped two fingers inside her and began to fuck herself with them. She could hear his even breaths, the rustling of clothes as he stroked his cock, and a moan bubbled behind her lips.

“ _Jon_ ,” she choked, the pressure building in the pit of her stomach.

“I’m here, baby,” he crooned, the pet name making her moan again, “that’s it. Imagine it’s my cock filling you, fucking you.”

“Gods," she arched her hips, curling her fingers deeper until she hit the right spot, “I’m so close.”

She turned her head to look at her phone, waiting for his reply with an intensity that bordered on desperate.

“Me too,” he said, his breaths coming a little faster, “wanna cum inside that tight cunt. Fill you up with cum.”

“Jon,” she sobbed again, her breath catching on a moan, as she turned her attention to her throbbing clit and rubbed it in tight circles.

“Come for me.”

She obeyed with a broken moan, her back arching and her toes curling into the sheets. It was so intense, she swore her eyes rolled, her limbs pulling taut like the string of a bow before they snapped. She buried her face in the pillow and trembled in the afterglow. She was barely able to register his thick growl as he clearly came too. She imagined it spurting from his cock in heavy streams of white, pooling in the dips of his stomach.

She sighed, running a hand over her hot face.

“Am I going to see you next week?” she asked quietly, once they had come back down to earth, “at Loras’ birthday party?”

 _Party_ was an understatement. Loras was even more ostentatious than his sister, loving any excuse to hold a lavish, extravagant event. He had rented an entire stately home in Kings Landing for the celebration, insisting on black tie and calling it a ball, not a party.

Daenerys held her breath as she waited for his reply.

She always wanted to see him—but part of her hoped he’d say _no._

Drogo was arriving in the morning, Viserys having insisted on bringing their nuptials forward. He and Illyrio thought it necessary that they spend more time together, get to know each other, and Daenerys raged at being treated like a doll. Pushed and pulled in every direction except the one she wanted to go in.

She knew she’d have to take him, have to introduce him to polite society. Running into Jon would be more than a little awkward but it was something she’d have to deal with because he was answering—

“Aye, we’ll be there. Arya’s probably going to sneak in with her fake ID again.”

She tried to laugh but it lodged in her throat.

She decided to just get it out there, rip off the bandaid.

“I’ll be there with Drogo.”

There was silence on the other end, the air thinning between them. He cleared his throat and she could imagine his expression, all cool and guarded with his back stiff.

“I’ll be there with Ros.”

She frowned, her mouth pinching in distaste.

“You said there was nothing going on.”

She practically winced at how whiney she sounded.

“There’s not,” he answered calmly, “but my father wants there to be.”

“Do _you_ want there to be?”

She heard him sigh, imagined the way he'd run a hand over his face.

“What does it matter, Daenerys?” he sounded tired, “you’re engaged.”

 _It matters because you said I was yours,_ the words burned on the tip of her tongue, _you said you were mine._

“Yeah, and you fuck me anyway.”

It was silent again before he scoffed. “Aye, and you fuck me. That’s what this is, isn’t it?”

 _No,_ she wanted to say, _it’s more._

“Yes,” she said quietly, “I hope you have fun with your date.”

She was being childish and ridiculous and hypocritical and a hundred other adjectives she couldn’t think of right now. But she couldn’t help it, couldn’t hold it back, her jealousy white hot and blinding her.

“Come on, don’t be like that—”

“Goodnight Jon.”

She cut him off, guilty of the very thing she accused her brother of.

_Blaming someone else for emotions you can’t handle.  
  
_

* * *

  
“What a man you have, my little dragon,” Olenna Tyrell whistled, her eyes sparkling as she shamelessly squeezed Drogo’s massive bicep. She was wearing a floor length violet gown, the diamonds shimmering in the shadow of the impressive chandelier overhead, and she eyed Daenerys' fiancé appreciatively.

Drogo merely grunted in response, his brows pulled together in that permanent scowl.

Daenerys faked a smile, her mouth pulling tight.

“He’s very happy to be here.”

Margaery's grandmother raised a brow, her eyes sweeping over him again.

“Yes, he certainly looks it.”

Daenerys’ arm tightened around his, her other hand coming to rest on top.

From the outside, she was sure they looked a handsome couple. Her dress was sinfully tight, clinging to her curves, all glossy black silk. The halter tied behind her neck, leaving her back exposed, the zip reaching just above her the curve of her behind. She was dripping in expensive Targaryen jewellery, her mother’s necklace and Drogo’s ring—but without Jon’s wolf, she felt naked.

Drogo was massive, his six foot three frame dwarfing her, and he puffed on a fat cigar. She tried not to grimace at the smoke, turning her face away before it could crawl into her lungs. She didn’t know why, but she hated it.

Even when they were small and innocent, the things he did irritated her. She hated how silent he was, reticent in a way that wasn’t brooding, but just plain rude. She hated the circumstances of their engagement, how she was a prize he had come to claim. She hated how growly and aggressive he could be and she hated how he didn’t care about her any more than she cared about him.

“Well, do enjoy your evening, my dears,” Olenna drawled with a tip of her champagne flute and then she left to mingle with the guests. 

The air bristled awkwardly when she was gone.

“Would you like to dance?” Daenerys asked after a beat, turning to him with an arch of her brow. She gestured towards the dance floor with a sweep of her hand.

He stared down at her through his cloud of cigar smoke.

“No.”

“No?” she enquired, her irritation flaring, “just.. no?”

“Yes.”

Her top lip twitched.

“Yes?”

“No,” he said again, his voice impossibly deep and gruff.

She wanted to scream.

“Are they the only words you know?”

He shrugged his massive shoulders.

“No dance.”

She tried not to roll her eyes. He normally spoke in broken English—it was about five on the list of languages he knew and the only one this side of the Narrow Sea—but she knew he was more well versed than this. He was being purposefully awkward, probably annoyed at being dragged to this event against his will—but she was _marrying_ him against her will, so was it really that much to ask?

She didn’t see the point in trying anymore.

She turned back to stand by his side, swiping a flute of champagne from a waiter’s tray as he walked past. She held a finger out to him, making the young boy pause. She kept it suspended there as she downed the drink in one, the bubbles leaving behind a pleasant burn, put the empty glass down and picked up another one.

Drogo looked at her like he was disgusted, his mouth twisting in distaste.

“What?” she snapped, knowing he wouldn’t reply.

Even if he had, she wouldn’t have heard it.

Jon and Ros were walking towards them.

He looked so handsome, dressed in the strong Stark colours of white and grey. There was a direwolf pin on his lapel, the same as the night she met him, and his hair was half tied back again. Her fingers itched with the impulse to pull the tie out, to feel his curls between her fingers. 

“Miss Targaryen,” he nodded smoothly, taking her hand. His lips were cool as he placed a kiss upon the back of it and then he turned to Drogo, “I don’t believe we’ve had the pleasure?”

Drogo just stared at him, blinking dumbly.

Daenerys stiffened her back, that easy expression sweeping over her face.

“Drogo, this is Jon Snow. He belongs to the Wolves,” she explained, “and you are?”

She knew full well who Ros was, but she was feeling petty and the champagne made her pettier still.

To her credit, the redhead remained cool and calm.

“Ros,” she smiled, extending a hand to Drogo.

He just stared at it.

Daenerys tried to hide her annoyance, clenching her jaw so hard her teeth ached.

“You must forgive my fiancé. He is unused to Westerosi customs.”

Ros drew her hand back awkwardly.

Jon’s lips were pursed, as though he found the situation very amusing indeed.

“Are you having a nice evening?” he asked politely, his fingers twitching before he held them behind his back.

“Very,” she lied, her voice clipped, “and you? I see your siblings are here.”

Robb and Arya were chatting on the other side of the room. She watched the elder Stark's eyes crinkle at the corners as he laughed, watched him ruffle her hair before she playfully pushed him away.

She thought of Viserys then, so cold and unfeeling, and she burned with jealousy.

“All but Sansa,” Ros replied easily. She looped her arm around Jon’s, giving it a squeeze, and Daenerys fought the urge to bare her teeth.

“Theon will be most disappointed,” she quipped, “he’s been asking about her.”

“Of course he has,” Jon replied cooly, unsurprised, “he’s been in love with her since we were kids.”

She'd assumed as much but the confirmation still rattled her. They were all so connected, their worlds colliding in a rich tapestry of interwoven histories. The smile she gave didn’t reach her eyes.

She was just about to reply when Loras took to the middle of the dance floor. His face was flushed from alcohol but lit up with a bright smile and they all fell quiet to listen to him.

As he launched into a flowery, dramatically embellished speech, Daenerys kept her gaze focused straight ahead.

All the while, she felt the heat of Jon Snow’s eyes on her.  
  


* * *

  
She took a breath, her eyes fluttering shut, as her hands curled into the bathroom sink.

She tried to prepare herself. She didn’t want to go back out there, surrounded by Wolves and Roses and even some Sand Snakes. Oberyn was always friendly enough, able to separate her from her brother’s betrayal, but a few of his daughters still looked at her like the enemy.

She needed to go back. Needed to take Drogo’s arm again and make idle small talk and pretend she was happy. She was grateful Viserys hadn’t wanted to come, had rolled his eyes and scoffed at the thought, calling Loras names she didn’t care to repeat, but she still felt alone.

Giving herself one more internal pep talk, she held her head high and walked out of the bathroom. She expected Drogo might be waiting for her, or Margaery wanting to talk, or even Robb Stark ready to chastise her again.

The last thing she expected was to be grabbed while she walked down a hallway, thrust into a nearby dining room and against the wall. She was about to scream, to protest, when a hot mouth covered hers.

She relaxed almost immediately, knowing his kiss. It had been branded on her skin for over a year.

Jon’s hands curled around her slim wrists, anchoring them next to her head. She arched against him and he swallowed her gasp of surprise, his tongue sweeping into her mouth.

“Jon,” she inhaled sharply when he broke away from her mouth, planting hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her neck. His hands went to her ass and he lifted her, wrapping her legs around his waist. Then he turned them around and walked them to the huge banquet table in the middle of the room, planting her down on the expensive wood.

His mouth went back to her neck, sucking marks into the flushed skin, and it felt like she was burning from the inside out.

“ _Jon,_ ” she said his name again, harder this time, bringing him back to reality.

He lifted his head and her breath caught in her throat.

His eyes were black, more wolf than man.

“I want you.”

She blinked at him, her eyes narrowing suspiciously.

“You’re drunk.”

“Aye, a little,” he admitted, his teeth worrying his bottom lip, “but I still want you.”

She swallowed, her dark lashes casting hollowy shadows on her cheeks as she looked to the floor.

“Drogo and Ros are waiting for us.”

“Fuck Drogo and Ros,” he replied easily, a hard edge to his voice, “this isn’t about them. It’s you and me. It’s always been you and me.”

He was right; it had been them right from the very beginning. Two people who shouldn’t want each other, but who _did,_ desperately and without reason. But she had to protect herself, the walls constructed high and impenetrable around her heart.

“I can’t do this. I’m being reckless,” she insisted, even as the words made her feel cold, “I have duties, responsibilities—”

“Aye, and what do I have?” he fired back, anger flaring behind his dark eyes, “do you know how many mafia bosses just toss their bastards aside? I’ve worked hard for this. My whole life. And I’m throwing it all away for what? A _fuck_?”

She winced at the words, sharp like the bullets from a gun and just as painful. His temper pulsed between them like a living thing, a rubber band that had been pulled too tight and snapped. 

“Fine,” she spat, trying to wrench herself out of his grip, “if that’s all this is to you, let me go.”

“ _Gods_ , Daenerys—” he growled in frustration and pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes, “—that’s not what I meant.”

“What did you mean then?” she snapped.

He brought his hands down, placing one on her thigh and the other on her neck. His fingers splayed across her hollow of her throat, gripping lightly, and against all her better instincts, heat flared between her thighs.

“Do you have any idea what it's like…” he started, voice low and quiet, “to think about you the way I do?”

“ _Tell me_ ,” she implored in a voice that bordered on desperate, “tell me the truth.”

“The truth?” he laughed but there was little humour in it, “the truth that I don’t want Ros or anyone else, I only want you? That you make me feel like a traitor to Robb and I can’t even _think_ about what my father would say and I _can’t stop._ I can’t keep my damn hands off you. I can’t have you, but I want you anyway. I should stay away from you, but I can’t. I care about your feelings and I’m _always_ worried about you and I _always_ want to be touching you and… when you’re gone, I miss you so much I can hardly stand it.”

She blinked, a sudden stinging sensation appearing behind her eyes and temples. His confession burned in her chest, like he had quite literally stuck his hand in there and squeezed her heart, and she felt an emotion she hadn't felt in a long time.

_Fear._

“Jon, I’m afraid.”

She whispered it against his mouth, pulling him in by the lapels of his suit before hesitating a hair’s breadth away.

“Don’t be,” his reply washed over her, “don’t you know I’d kill for you?”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

Then she was kissing him.

She poured everything she had into that kiss; all the violence, the desperation, the pain of missing him and the certain agony she knew would be hers once she’d lost him. He pushed right back, his tongue sweeping into her mouth and tasting her, all berries and champagne. He was a skilful and considerate lover and his kisses were no exception. His mouth slotted over hers expertly, his fingers tightening around her throat.

He kissed her top lip then dragged the bottom one between his teeth.

The hand on her thigh began to move, pushing the dark silk up until it was bunched in his fist.

When her thigh was exposed, his fingers brushing over something unexpected, he flinched and pulled back.

A knife was strapped to her thigh with a black garter, the cool steel resting against her burning flesh.

“Always be prepared,” she arched a brow, her eyes flickering from his face to her thigh and back again, “you taught me that.”

He looked fascinated, his fingers dancing over the edge of the blade.

“My fierce little dragon,” he murmured, tugging her closer until her ass was half off the table and he could step closer between her thighs.

She kissed him again, keenly aware that they didn’t have much time. They were playing with fire, throwing caution to the wind, and anyone could walk in. Robb, Ros, Arya, _Drogo._ The thought traced a shiver down her spine and she pulled him closer still.

As they kissed, she pushed his jacket off his shoulders, letting it flutter to the floor. There wasn’t much time for anything else, for any more undressing, and she flung her arms around his shoulders. She arched her back, scooting forward until she could grind her aching cunt against his belt buckle. Through a layer of thin lace, she felt the cool steel press against her throbbing clit and her head tipped back with a moan.

As pleasure sparked through her body, she squeezed his sides with her thighs and felt him flinch.

She heard the hiss he made too, an intake of breath that he sucked over his teeth.

She paused, shifting back slightly and narrowing her eyes. He tried to cover it up, tried to kiss her again, but she tilted her head away. His eyes shuttered, resigned, as she frowned and tugged his shirt from his trousers. Once it was loose, she pushed the material up and inhaled on a sharp gasp.

He was covered in purplish black bruises. They spanned both sides of his ribs, blooming under his sun-kissed skin, swollen and angry and red-raw. His abs contracted, his face twisting in a little grimace when she touched her fingers to either side.

“Who did this?”

He shook his head, faking a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Doesn’t matter. You should see the other guys.”

“That’s not funny,” she whispered, “what happened?”

He blinked at her for a moment before he sighed, knowing she wasn’t going to let it go.

“I killed Joffrey Baratheon,” he said dully.

“This was the Stags?” she asked, her brows pulled into a frown as she gently traced her fingers over the bruises, “the Lions?”

“Aye,” he said, “revenge. I suppose we all knew it was coming—and it’s only the beginning.”

She felt her stomach twist horribly.

“The beginning?”

“This is nothing,” he insisted with a quirked brow, “just roughing me up a little. I held my own. There’ll be more to come.”

She didn’t want to think about that. She wanted him to be happy and warm and safe, more than she wanted it for herself. She swallowed past the lump in her throat and tilted her head to kiss him again. He dipped to meet her, their lips sliding together in a heated kiss. His hands trailed up her thighs, bypassing the knife to tug her panties down her legs.

They dropped to the floor and there wasn’t time for anything else.

Her hands frantically unbuckled his belt and then his trousers were tugged down as far as they needed to be and he was pushing inside her with one powerful thrust.

She gasped, feeling full and warm, and looped her arms around his neck. She fought the urge to pull the tie from his hair, to tug at it, knowing they didn’t have time. She just met him thrust for thrust as he fucked her against the table, her legs wrapping around his waist and pulling her tighter inside her.

“You like that?” he murmured lowly in her ear, his dirty tone causing her cunt to clench around his length, “you like being fucked… knowing your _fiancé_ is in the next room?”

She whimpered, her toes curling as he slid out, the head of his cock bumping her clit before he pushed back in to the hilt. One of his hands wrapped around her hair, showing a complete disregard for the care she had shown his, and her elaborate updo unravelled under his fingers. His other arm wrapped around her waist, aiding his powerful thrusts.

“Yes,” she moaned, liquid heat pooling in the pit of her stomach, “ _gods,_ yes—harder.”

He growled his approval, his pace increasing.

“You think your precious _Drogo_ will ever fuck you like this?” he said roughly, dragging his mouth across her cheek until he could kiss her again. It was a messy kiss; all clashing teeth and duelling tongues.

“No,” she rasped, “just you. Only you.”

“Aye, that’s right.”

She gasped when he hit the perfect spot inside her, one of his hands trailing between her legs so he could rub her clit. A moan ripped from her throat, her pussy clenching tight as a vice around him, and he gave an answering groan.

His mouth went to her ear again and he muttered something into her hair, something so filthy and dark and possessive it made her shudder in his arms:

“I’m going to send you back to him with my cum dripping out of you.”

It was perverse, wrong really, but those words tipped her over the edge. White hot pleasure sparked through her, wave upon wave crashing over her body, and she held on and he held on right back. It eclipsed anything she ever _thought_ was pleasure in the past and she buried her face in neck, shuddering with a silent sob.

He was right behind her, fulfilling his promise as he bit a growl into her hair and his cock jerked and pulsed inside her. He flooded her womb with cum, fucking her through it in shallow thrusts, and when he pulled out, she felt it drip onto her thighs.

She felt strangely cold when he pulled away.

Aftershocks of pleasure rumbled through her body as she tried to right herself. He stepped back to give her space, using the back of hand to wipe her lipstick from his mouth before he pulled his trousers up and buckled his belt. She pulled her compact out of her purse, grimacing slightly at her messy hair and makeup. She fixed it the best she could as he waited.

When she glanced up again, she saw her panties dangling from his finger.

She rolled her eyes and went to grab them, but he quirked a brow and drew his hand back.

Then, he shoved them in his pocket.

“Jon!”

He merely smirked, an easy tip of his generous mouth.

He touched his thumb to her bottom lip, his touch achingly gentle, before he left the room.

She closed her eyes and counted a full minute before she followed.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She saw the nights she had cried herself to sleep, desperate to escape his tyranny, wishing for someone to save her, but no-one ever came.
> 
> Now it all seemed very clear. She had to save herself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An update already, you say! Your lovely comments on the last chapter spurred me to write more, so thank you so much! That being said, I'm a bit nervous about this one, just because the second half is so different to the stuff I usually write. Hope it’s okay. Please be warned, this is a HEAVY one. Trigger warnings for violence, mentions of past abuse and Viserys just being an all-round terrible person. 
> 
> Read safely, my loves. Enjoy!

* * *

  
Daenerys stared into the distance and watched the afternoon sun glint off Blackwater Bay, making the water glitter like sapphire jewels. 

She squinted slightly against the harsh rays before she slipped her expensive sunglasses over her eyes. They were dining outside, on the balcony of her bedroom, and Drogo ate noisily. He acted and sounded like a brute and she didn’t bother hiding her eye roll, knowing a Chanel barrier stood between them.

As he grabbed his wine glass and slurped the contents, her fingers came to delicately clasp the stem of her own.

“Do you _want_ to marry me?” she asked suddenly, tearing her eyes away from the beautiful view to arch a brow at him.

He paused for a moment, likely surprised to hear her voice. They had sat in silence for the best part of an hour. 

He blinked, grunted, and then tore into a chicken leg with his teeth.

Daenerys sighed, leaning back in her chair. The cool breeze was pleasant as it washed over her skin and she tapped her fingers absentmindedly on the surface of the table.

“My family isn’t what it was once,” she started, her voice somewhat guarded, “in-fact, we’re probably the _least_ powerful of the Five Families. We have the name—but so do the other four.”

She thought of the Wolves and their loyalty. She thought of the Baratheons and their strength, the Lannisters and Roses and their immense wealth. The Dragons had been clinging on for decades, their power muted and lessened by dangerously unstable, paranoid men. Drogo clearly wasn’t going to respond, fascinated as he was by the lavish meal in-front of him, so she continued.

“The Wolves have the numbers. A successful mafia family has a powerful leader at the helm; in Ned, Robb and Jon, they have three. The Starks _command_ loyalty and the Northern families obey. The Baratheons have weapons. They have all the arms dealers in the Seven Kingdoms in their pocket and they’re made stronger through marriage to Cersei Lannister. Speaking of Cersei, the Lions are rich beyond belief. They don’t exactly inspire loyalty but money can buy just about anything. The Roses, too. They have immeasurable wealth and they also have an invaluable marriage pact with the Starks. So you see… my brother has sold you a lie. There really is nothing I can offer you.”

He was listening.

“We build,” he insisted in that gruff voice, “we start with name and power will come.”

She paused again as she turned her head and gazed out across the ocean.

“Not while my brother is in charge,” she said quietly, “he is weak and afraid. He's already damaged our family’s standing possibly beyond repair and it will only get worse as he descends further into madness."

Drogo seemed to contemplate something before he grunted again.

“We cut his head off.”

Her gaze snapped to his and she blinked before a noise left her lips—half a laugh, half a scoff.

“I’m sure that’s very satisfying in Essos but here, it’s not how we solve our problems.”

He grumbled a low response in Dothraki before he asked what she would do instead.

“I don’t know,” she admitted with a sigh, “something… else. Something that won’t tie us both into a commitment neither of us want. If I could find another way… a way to grant you power here in Westeros, money and status, would you accept that?”

He seemed to consider it. He even put his food down, resting his elbows on the table. He folded his massive hands over each other and rested his chin on them.

“Money, status... but no you?” he asked, that permanent frown etched on his face.

She shook her head gently.

“No, you wouldn’t have me.”

He clicked his tongue and it was silent for a few moments before he sat back and nodded.

“I think about it.”

She tried not to let her surprise show, grateful again that she was wearing the sunglasses.

“Thank you,” she murmured, bringing her wine glass to her lips and taking a sip, “I trust this conversation will stay between us?”

He nodded, returning to his meal. She picked her fork up and prodded at her untouched food in response, pushing it around her plate, before he confirmed:

“Yes. I do not tell your stupid brother.”

She laughed at his bluntness, finding it less irritating than usual.

“Thank you, Drogo.”

“What is this word? You use often?”

“Thank you?” she asked with a frown, “there is no word for this in Dothraki?”

He shook his head, grabbing a unsophisticated handful of strawberries from the bowel in the middle of the table and stuffing them in his mouth.

“It means…” she struggled with the best way to describe it, “…to show appreciation. To be grateful.”

He guffawed, his beard painted red as he wiped the back of his mouth with his hand.

“We are fighters. We do not bow or fall to knees. We take and this is good.”

“Alright then—how do I say _this is good_?”

“ _Jini davra,_ ” the words sounded more like a growl, guttural and deep.

She nodded, folding her hands in her lap.

“This new understanding between us... _jini davra_.”

He smirked, looking pleased.

“ _Sek me ajjin_. I will teach you more – _yer chomoe anna_.”

“ _Yer chomoe anna_?” she repeated, tripping over the strange words and likely butchering the pronunciation.

He didn’t seem to mind.

“You do honour to me.”

It seemed a touch dramatic simply for speaking his language but she gave a curt nod anyway.

“Alright, you can teach me more. And we will work together for a solution.”

He nodded back, the conversation seemingly finished before he grumbled, “ _shieraki gori ha yeraan_.”

He told her it meant the stars were charging for her, that it was normally said to someone who was riding into battle.

She supposed she was.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys whimpered, her back arching and her toes curling into the sheets, as Jon’s mouth moved between her thighs.

He pulled back to drop a globule of spit directly onto her pulsing clit before he returned to his meal. His tongue licked a hot stripe, from her entrance to that bundle of nerves and she tangled her fingers in his curls, needing something to hold onto. She revelled in the answering groan he gave her.

Her thighs felt unbearably slick, her cunt pulsing with a foreign heat, and she fought the urge to buck her hips up to his mouth.

“Gods,” she choked, screwing her eyes shut and trying to be quiet. Drogo was somewhere in the mansion, still here for another couple of days, and it _did_ something to her. The wrongness of it. She covered a breast with her hand, giving it a squeeze as he lapped at her cunt in wet, dirty strokes. Her fingers grazed the wolf ring around her neck and that, coupled with the obscene sounds he was making, stoked her desire.

His fingers dug into her slippery thighs, spreading her wider for him, and she chased the feeling, her chest feeling so tight she could barely breathe.

Finally, he pushed his tongue inside her.

He began to fuck her with it, his bobbing dark curls a shock against her pale thighs. She inhaled sharply, feeling her thighs begin to shake, that tight bundle of desire knotting in the pit of her stomach. Slowly, he inserted two fingers inside her and curled them and it was this that pushed her over the edge. The band snapped, white hot pleasure rushing over her, and she had to clamp a hand over her mouth.

Still trembling in the afterglow, she registered him wiping his mouth on her thigh. She felt the grit of his beard against her skin. It still glistened, wet with her juices, when he climbed back up her body to give her a kiss.

She tasted herself tart and tangy on his tongue.

He was shirtless but he still had his trousers on and her hand reached for his cock, hard and straining against the fabric.

“No,” he murmured, voice tight, “not tonight.”

“I want to make you happy,” she frowned, wanting to return the favour.

“You do,” he said simply.

She sighed, resting her forehead against his. He didn’t waste any time, didn’t lay back and let her curl into him. He didn’t know that the hollow of his throat, that warm patch of skin just where his neck met his shoulder… _that’s_ where she felt safe.

He stood, buckling his belt and picking his shirt up. They were quiet as he shoved his arms through the sleeves and moved over to her dresser. He grabbed the jacket he’d slung over the back of the chair, putting it on. She stood too, unashamed of her nakedness, walking over to him and wrapping her arms around his waist. He stiffened for a moment before he returned the embrace, dropping a kiss on the top of her head.

She finally untangled herself from him when he went to light up a cigarette. He always did after an orgasm, his or hers, and she smiled at the predictability of it all.

He inhaled and blew the smoke out of the corner of his mouth before he looked at her, seemingly contemplating something.

“Will you do something for me?”

 _Anything,_ the word burned on her tongue

“What?”

He leaned back and picked up the Colt 45 he’d placed on the desk.

“I want you to have this.”

She froze, surprised.

Then, she frowned.

“Why?”

He used the back of the hand holding his newly lit cigarette to press into his eyes as he laughed.

“Do you have to argue about everything?”

“Yes.”

“Please,” he said, exasperated, bringing his hand down again, “I want you to be able to protect yourself.”

She stared at the weapon, a mixture of conflicting emotions coursing through her. She appreciated the sentiment. The men in her life liked to control her, to shove her into a box and give her the label of _defenceless woman._ Jon had never treated her like that. He’d never treated her like she was beneath than him, like she needed him to keep her safe—though she knew he always would.

He treated her like an equal.

She brought her hand out, touching her fingers to the barrel of the gun. It felt smooth, hard and dangerous, and something tightened inside her. She swallowed and took it from his hand, turning it over in her own.

“Alright,” she said quietly, “I’m still not _entirely_ sure I know how to use it but… thank you.”

“Stick it at them with this end,” he arched a brow, tapping the barrel of the gun, like it was very simple.

She rolled her eyes with a little smile, walking over to place the weapon on her bedside table. Silence settled over them as he put his shoes on and continued taking drags from his cigarette.

“When are you going back North?”

He stared at her for a beat before he shrugged.

“A few days.”

“What’s keeping you?”

A muscle in his cheek twitched.

“Business,” he said curtly.

She narrowed her eyes, the atmosphere stretching heavy and significant in the widening gap between them.

“You know you can trust me, right?”

He sighed, walking over to the window. He held the cigarette between his teeth as he opened it and straddled the frame.

“I know,” he said quietly, “but we are who we are… and I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’d never hurt me,” she replied easily because if she was sure of _anything_ anymore, she was sure of this.

“I would,” he said gently. He was still talking in riddles but she suddenly understood when he added, “you can’t be pushed for information you do not have.”

He was keeping her in the dark to keep her in safe. Viserys was clearly working to strengthen the Dragons’ position with the Lions and Stags, had probably played a part in the bruises that still coloured Jon’s ribs, and what she didn’t know couldn’t hurt her. But it still felt painful, still hurt when she kissed him goodbye and watched him go.

Later that evening, when she finally crawled into bed and succumbed to sleep, she wouldn’t notice the direwolf pin that had fallen from his jacket, glinting ominously under the oak desk.  
  


* * *

  
“You should stay,” Viserys was insisting in a lofty, self-important tone, “the wedding will take place in a month’s time; there is much to organise!”

Drogo shook his head, already loading his suitcase onto the back of his massive motorbike.

“I must go home,” he insisted in that rough burr, “my people need me. I be back.”

She had been helping him brush up on his English, as he had been teaching her Dothraki. As she stood on the doorstep of the Targaryen Mansion and watched him, she wondered if there might have been a chance for them.

A different life where they were different people—a life where she hadn’t met Jon.

 _He had ruined her_ , she realized.

Her mind was full of him. It sounded utterly ridiculous, but sometimes she had the urge to sit in the shower and cry and scrub at her skin until she was red raw—but there would be no extracting him. He’d crawled his way into her bones and bled into her every pore. He was in her blood now, in her veins. She couldn’t get him out.

She should have put an end to it months ago. He had swept into her life like wildfire, a sudden flame, blazing and streaming into her heart. But she worried that fire would end up burning the good, leaving nothing to show for it but the barren wasteland. 

“Goodbye, Drogo,” she said politely.

“Goodbye,” he nodded before he swung his tree-trunk leg over the bike, settling in the seat. He didn’t wear a helmet and he pressed on the pedal, smirking as the bike roared to life, “ _Vos forget what kisha astosh qisi. I ozao power she Westeros_.”

He reminded her of his thirst for power, however he got it. If she couldn’t come up with a suitable alternative, he would take her as his wife and he didn’t seem like the patient type. He would be back to collect.

She nodded.

“ _Anha will vo,_ " she promised, the words leaving her lips without thinking, and she felt the heat of Viserys’ shocked eyes on her.

Viserys waited until Drogo was gone, roaring through the gates, before he grabbed the crook of her elbow.

She winced at his tight grip, trying to pull her arm back.

“When the fuck did you learn Dothraki?” he snarled. He didn’t like being surprised, not having the upper hand. He didn’t like the threat she posed, the power and intelligence she had inside her, just waiting to be unleashed. 

“Does it matter?”

“Yes it does if you’re having secret little conversations behind my back!”

She blinked at him before she ripped her arm from his grip.

“Oh brother,” she murmured, “so paranoid… be careful, you’re beginning to sound like father.”

She walked inside the house and left him alone on the cold stone steps.  
  


* * *

  
Viserys was in a bad mood.

She could tell from the way the very mansion seemed to bristle—cold, tense air settling over them all like a blanket. The guards stood a little stiffer, Jorah’s jaw was permanently clenched and Theon looked awkward and uncomfortable. Daenerys could hear crashes and yells coming from her brother’s office as he took his anger out on the furniture.

She sat cross-legged on her bed and tried to read, rolling her eyes at the chaos.

He left her alone for thirty glorious minutes before he practically kicked her bedroom door open.

“Come in,” she rolled her eyes, closing the book. She rested her hands on her thighs instead, her fingers curling over her knees.

“I need money,” he barked, striding into her room and immediately throwing her dresser drawers open. Theon lingered by the doorway, his hand clenched around the frame and his brows furrowed tight.

“Um— _excuse me_ ,” she bit out as Viserys began to throw her possessions over his shoulder. She dodged a perfume bottle as he growled and slammed the drawer shut, flinging open the one below.

“Money!” he snapped again, rifling through before he let out a noise of exasperation and frantically ran his fingers through his hair. Daenerys’ stomach churned at the sight of him. He looked frenzied and wild, those icy locks a mess, deep purple circles under his eyes. His pupils were dilated, his jaw was clenched, and a thin layer of perspiration covered his skin. His hands shook as he rifled through her drawers again.

The Dragons dabbled in importing cocaine, as did all the Five Families. They weren’t supposed to use their own supply but as Daenerys looked at her brother, she had no doubt in her mind that he had discarded that rule.

“Why do you need it?” she asked, her voice lined with hesitation. She had to approach this cautiously, approach _him_ cautiously, the way you would a skittish animal, “are you in trouble? What have you done?”

It was too many questions at once and he slammed another drawer, so hard she was surprised the wood didn’t splinter and crack.

“None of your fucking business,” he growled.

“It _is_ my business,” she argued back.

His hands were shaking again as he ran them over his face.

“There’s nothing in there,” she added calmly.

“I need to pay some men, alright!” he snapped impatiently, “I hired them to teach the White Wolf a fucking lesson and they’ve come to collect.”

“Jon?” she blurted out, her chest feeling too tight. She saw Theon out of the corner of her eye, his expression wide and alert, silently begging her to stay calm and not say something she’d regret, “you’re the one who had him beaten?”

But it was too late.

“Well, me and Cersei Lannister—’ he paused, something clicking in his head. With a sickening sense of realisation, she knew what she had done, and she saw Theon close his eyes in defeat, “—how did you know that?”

His voice was quiet and deathly low.

She swallowed past the lump in her throat and tried to feign nonchalance.

“What?”

“How did you know he was attacked?”

Her brain kicked into overdrive, trying to come up with an excuse, when she noticed his sharpened eyes zeroing in on something else.

“What is it?” she asked again, her panic rising, as his brows furrowed in confusion.

He leaned down, just by the leg of her dresser, and picked something up.

Her stomach twisted horribly.

_Jon’s direwolf pin._

Viserys blinked, turning the offending item over in his hands, trying to process it. Daenerys saw the moment his rage boiled over, his face turning so red it was practically purple.

“What the _fuck_ is this?” he roared, spit flying from his mouth as he clenched the pin in a tight fist.

Theon stepped forward but Viserys flung a hand out before he could say anything.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he snarled dangerously, “that won’t work twice.”

Theon flinched, his top lip twitching but he didn’t drop back.

 _He’s prepared to fight_ , she realised. To fight for her.

“You spread your legs for the White Wolf?” he hissed, disgust and pure hatred flashing through his violet-speckled eyes, “you fucking whore. You _traitor._ ”

“Viserys—”

He took a step forward and there was no hesitation, no uncertainty, as he grabbed a handful of her hair and dragged her off the bed.

She winced at the sharp stabs of pain that seared through her scalp, her hands flying up to cover his as she struggled. Theon lunged forward but Viserys kicked him back, sending him flying with a grunt. The commotion brought a couple of Targaryen guards to the door.

“Get rid of him,” Viserys spat, returning his attention to her as the burly men grabbed a struggling Theon under each arm and dragged him out.

The door slammed shut with an sickening bang.

“You fucking bitch!” her brother screamed in her face, his fist tight around her hair. He let her go only for the back of his hand to connect with her face. Her head whipped to the side, sharp pain searing through her cheekbone, as she tried not to cry.

“Viserys, stop it,” she begged, kicking out at him as his hand flew to her throat then, “ _please._ ”

As he squeezed tight, roaring insults that made her vision blur with desperate tears, a strange strength settled over her body. She kept kicking out at him as her hand flew behind her, fumbling for what she knew was on the bedside table. When she found it, her hand closing around the weapon in a sweaty grip, her mind went blank.

It was a strange sensation, somewhat disconnected and muted, like she was floating outside of her body looking in. 

She saw the path that had brought her here, inextricably bound to a man she hated. And if she left, if she put an end to it, she would be entirely alone. A Targaryen alone in the world. She saw everything he’d done to her, like a kaleidoscope of memories before her eyes. She saw herself bruised and torn, her face disfigured and burning with pain. She saw all the beatings, all the times she never knew if it was going to end, or just get worse until she died. She saw the nights she had cried herself to sleep, desperate to escape his tyranny, wishing for someone to save her, but no-one ever came.

Now it all seemed very clear; she had to save herself.

It had to end.

So, with shaking hands and in the middle of the struggle, she thrust the barrel of the gun into her brother’s chest and pulled the trigger.

The bang hit the air with a sickening crack.

His eyes widened in shock as he stumbled backwards, blood seeping through his shirt. She flinched as it bubbled behind his lips and burst out with a cough, splattering her face.

He hit the floor with a heavy thud, his body twitching once, twice, three times before he died.

She stared unblinkingly, in a state of shock, as silence pierced the air.

Then, she promptly threw up.  
  


* * *

  
She didn’t speak when Theon and Jorah found her.

They’d come rushing into the room as soon as they heard the shot, slamming the door shut and locking it before any other guards could get involved. She’d still been sitting against her bedside table, her arms wrapped around her knees, staring vacantly at her brother’s body.

“Fuck me...” she’d barely registered Theon’s low murmur before he and Jorah kicked themselves into life, each grabbing one of Viserys’ arms and dragging his body towards the door.

As Theon struggled with it, Jorah had bent to her level.

“We’ll clean it up,” he promised simply—and she knew he wasn’t talking about the blood seeping into the carpet.

His hand had come to gently cup her cheek. He swiped away a speck of blood that must have lay there. He told her he and Theon would deal with it and then he told her to wash it all away.   
  
That was how she found herself sitting against the tiles in her shower, the water pounding down like rain.

She sat quietly with her knees drawn to her chest, her arms wrapped around them. She blinked away the water that gathered on her eyelashes, sticking her hair to her forehead, and her mind was still blank.

She looked up when she sensed a presence by the door. She’d left it wide open and she thought it might be Theon or Jorah, come to tell her in thinly veiled euphemism that it was done.

It wasn’t; it was Jon.

He looked calm and composed, a shadow in the doorway, and his dark eyes swept over her.

He walked in, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it over the bathroom sink. Then, he rolled up his sleeves and approached her. He walked slowly, as though giving her time to tell him no, to tell him to leave—but she didn’t.

She didn’t say a thing as he opened the shower door and simply sat down next to her.

It was silent, the only noise the water pounding against the tile, and it stuck his designer clothes to his skin but _still_ —he didn’t speak.

“There’s blood on my hands,” she broke the silence with a broken whisper, “I can’t get it off.”

He took her hands in his, gently turning them over. If there had been any blood on them, the water had long since washed it away. Still, he knew what she meant, read the subtext behind her words, and he didn’t reply. She wondered if he saw what she saw, if he grieved for the innocent girl he knew, the girl she would never be again.

He brought her hands to his mouth and placed a kiss on the back of them.

Then, he turned them over and laid kisses on her palms. 

His lips were soft and wet as he cleaned the imaginary blood away, expunging her of her sin.

She blinked at him vacantly, unbothered about her nakednesss, still aching.

He gifted them back to her and she finally saw them clean, pale white skin staring at her.

“I killed my brother,” she whispered hollowly into the silence, breathing it into life.

Her shoulder brushed the wet fabric of his shirt and she listened to his quiet breaths.

“You killed the man who hurt you,” he corrected—all low and heavy and northern gruff.

She pursed her lips, feeling cold despite the warm water that flowed over her.

“Jon,” her voice was broken as she choked out his name, “I don’t know who I am anymore.”

“I do,” he said quietly, grey eyes soft as he made eye contact with her for the first time. He took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing her to keep his gaze, “you’re Daenerys Targaryen. The last Dragon. You’re kind and strong and more of a woman than anyone I’ve ever met.”

She released a shaky breath and closed her eyes. She curled into him, nestled into his shoulder as he brought his arm around her and held her to him. It was comforting, in a strange way. As she sobbed, the water rained down and mixed with her tears and for a moment, it was like she wasn’t crying at all.

They stayed like that until the water turned cold.

Until his hand reached up behind them and he shut it off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And I oop- 
> 
> “Sek me ajjin" – yes, it is.
> 
> "Vos forget what kisha astosh qisi. I ozao power she Westeros" – do not forget what we discussed, I want power in Westeros
> 
> "Anha will vo" – I will not
> 
> I have written variants of the shower scene in other fics, but I just love it. It's borrowed from Casino Royale because that scene is just 🔥🔥🔥 This was a hard one, our poor Dany :( but I always wanted her to be the one to bring Viserys to justice. Although it's hot af to think of Jon punishing him for her, this was her fight. Her chance to reclaim control of her life. As we get further into this story, I'm thinking of completing it at 12 chapters, thoughts??


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Margaery drew back slightly, a mixture of grief and surprise written on her pretty face.
> 
> “You’re not alone,” she said, her eyes imploring, “Dany, you were never alone.”

* * *

  
Daenerys was dreaming.

She knew she was dreaming.

She was watching her younger self and Viserys, sitting on the lowest branch of a large Oak tree in the grounds of the Targaryen Mansion. The soft autumn air, crisp and clean, billowed through the branches of the trees. Judging by the length of Viserys’ hair and the little gap in her teeth, she guessed she was around four and Viserys eleven.

They were holding hands, as always. People had found it sweet at first; their father hoped she would be a good influence on him. By now, it was clear it was a relationship built upon unhealthy control. More often than not, he held her by the wrist, his fingers closing around the slim bone like a tight metal cuff. She could still remember how his grip hurt, how it stung.

“Sweet sister,” Viserys was saying, “you’re _mine._ You belong to me.”

“Don’t argue,” he added, though she hadn't said a word, hadn't even opened her mouth.

As she dreamed, tossing in bed with her brows furrowed, Daenerys wanted to warn her younger self. She wanted to scream at her to fight back, to drop his hand and break the connection. Instead, she watched helplessly as Viserys’ stormy expression darkened, his fingers digging into the back of her palm. The little Daenerys just bowed her head, her bottom lip trembling as their father called for them to come inside.

The dream shifted, altered until they were back in her bedroom, the very night she pulled the trigger.

Horrified, she watched as he slowly stood and she stood too. Blood seeped through his shirt and ran from his mouth in a horrible gargling sound. His eyes were pitch black and even more hate filled than they were in life.

“ _Kin-slayer,_ ” he hissed, “you murdered me… after all I did for you.”

“What did you do for me?” she heard herself challenge, fire lacing her words, “other than keep me under your control. You beat me, you frightened me, you hurt me.”

“Only when you woke the dragon. I loved you.”

Dream-Daenerys laughed but it was a bitter, ugly sound.

“You sold me. You betrayed me.”

“No, you were the betrayer,” her dead brother made an inhuman sound, “I taught you everything. When father died, I clothed you. I fed you. I took care of you. You let yourself be seduced by the enemy. You turned against me, against your own blood.”

Guilt kicked at her stomach as she fought it back.

“No,” she saw herself shake her head, fighting against his words, “no, that’s not right. You’re trying to get in my head.”

“Now you’ll have to contend with that stinking savage,” his mouth curled into a snake-like grin, “I might have saved you from it. I might have married you myself. You would have given me children with silver hair and purple eyes, to keep the blood of the dragon pure.”

Sickness joined the guilt swirling for precedence in the pit of her stomach.

“You’re vile,” she heard herself whisper, “you really did go mad.”

He took a step towards her until she could smell him, all death and decay.

“And what will killing me do to you?” he whispered, “I’ll never leave. I’m part of you now.”

His voice was a cold hiss in her ear. She felt the pull of his hand on her arm, like she was being dragged into a vortex.

Her own strangled gasp jolted her awake.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys stood by the chair in the main study, her fingers running over the golden dragon on the arm.

 _It’s mine now,_ she thought, but at what price?

She took a breath, thinking of her father and Viserys, of her grandfather and even the mother she never knew. She wondered what they would think of her if they could see her now. She wondered if they would be disgusted or proud; remembering her father in particular, she thought probably both.

She slowly sat down, the leather squeaking under her. It felt momentous, like the earth was moving under her, shifting with the tide. It was all hers—the Targaryen dynasty, the name… it was _her_ children who would carry on their legacy.

Her hands folded over the desk, feeling the sturdy oak under her fingers.

“What will you do now?” Theon’s quiet voice asked.

She had forgotten he was there.

Her blurry eyes snapped to him.

“What do you mean?”

He shifted in his own seat. At the back of her mind, she registered that he looked a little uncomfortable. They'd bonded now, deep in a way a lot of other people wouldn't understand, but he still didn’t know how to approach her, how she was going to react to her brother’s blood on her hands.

“You’re head of the family now,” he said like it was obvious, “ _everything_ has changed. You have inherited your brother’s enemies, and let me tell you, he had many. You’ll need to deal with the Family’s finances, your loyalties, your men. You’ll need to deal with Drogo.”

She sat back in the chair, drumming her fingers on the arms.

She could already feel a headache forming, her temples aching.

Still reeling from Viserys’ death, she couldn’t think about any of that right now. She couldn’t handle it. She needed to come to terms with what she had done; the rest could wait.

“I never thanked you,” she said quietly, “for what you did.”

A flicker of surprise passed over his features.

“It was nothing,” he tried to dismiss, but he was wrong.

Trying to defend her, dealing with Viserys’ body, driving it to the pier at Blackwater Bay and letting the waters wash it away—that wasn’t nothing. He had been discreet about it, inconspicuous and loyal when he didn't have to be, and she was grateful for his quiet strength.

 _Another brother buried at the bottom of the sea,_ she thought brokenly, and she felt very alone.

“You’ll probably want to go home,” she murmured while her insides raged at the wrongness of the idea, “back North, back to the Wolves. I would understand, of course. You owe me nothing. But—” the words lodged in her throat before she closed her eyes and let them rush out with a harsh breath, “I would like you to stay.”

His mouth opened and he blinked twice.

“You said it yourself, I have a lot of work to do,” she started, folding her hands in her lap now because she couldn’t sit still, “I’m not too proud to admit I feel completely lost. I don’t even know where to start, but I know that I _trust_ you. Despite everything.”

He nodded, a small smile curving his lips.

“Alright, I’ll stay.”

If she was honest, she was surprised he agreed.

“The Starks won’t mind?”

He shrugged. “Ned might. I think Robb’s coming around—and Jon will be downright pleased.”

“Really?”

He stood, running a hand through his hair.

“All he wants is to keep you safe.”

She felt a pang in her chest, something clenching tight. She wanted that for him too, even though she had no right to. As Theon went to leave, she called out after him.

“Theon?” his hand paused on the door handle and his head turned to the side to show he was listening, “when I said to stay… that wasn’t an order, you know?”

Her voice was small, a little vulnerable, and she didn’t want him to think she was anything like Viserys. That she would order him around, that she would punish him or hurt him.

She saw his lips twitch into a little smile and his voice was gentle when he finally answered:

“I know.”  
  


* * *

  
Before Daenerys got to work on any of her many duties, she visited Margaery in Highgarden.

The Rose wrapped her up in a tight hug.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered tearfully into her hair, “I’m so sorry you had to go through that.”

Her friend’s touch was comforting, warm and soft, and Daenerys closed her eyes. She felt that ache in her chest, the one that had been there since she pulled the trigger, and she let Margaery lead her into the living room. When they were sitting, perched on the edge of the sofa, she didn’t let go of her hands.

“He was a terrible man. He deserved it,” Daenerys said in a small voice, but it sounded like she was trying to convince herself, like she wasn’t sure.

Margaery _was_ sure—and her eyes were fierce.

“He did, Dany,” she insisted, “he _did._ He was awful, and you’re going to lead your family with all the wisdom he never had.”

She nodded but she still felt broken, shattered possibly beyond repair. In the company of quite possibly her only friend, she finally allowed herself to cry.

“I dream of him,” she whispered tearfully, “I dream of what I did and him haunting me forever.”

“He’s dead,” Margaery said, her voice soft but matter of fact, “he can’t hurt you anymore. The only power he has over you now is the power you give him.” 

Daenerys nodded but she still felt that sick wave of guilt. 

_I taught you everything_ , Viserys’ dreamlike voice whispered in her ear, _when father died, I clothed you. I fed you. I took care of you._

She thought of the rare moments of kindness he had shown her between the abuse, the times where he let her believe he wasn’t that bad at all. The times he let her believe he felt remorse. She remembered him sneaking her an extra desert at dinner or carrying her on his shoulders or teaching her High Valyrian. Tiny flickers of someone kind.

The memories reached into her chest, winding around her veins and strangling her heart. For a moment they were all she could see—and her fractured mind tortured herself with the possibility that she’d remembered it wrong.

She supposed that was what was happening here. She was angry and hurt and she started to remember the good stuff—but maybe if she gave it a few months, or a few years, the guilt would fade and all the bad memories would come back and she could kind of live with it. Because he _had_ deserved it. She would be able to see it clearly, to accept that she was a victim.

For now, the pain and guilt was all she could focus on, and she choked on a sob when she whispered, “I’m alone now.”

Margaery drew back slightly, a mixture of grief and surprise written on her pretty face.

“You’re not alone,” she said, her eyes imploring, “Dany, you were never alone.”

Daenerys shook her head but Margaery was speaking again, her voice strong.

“You’re _not._ You have me and Jorah and Jon.”

She let out a little watery scoff.

“I can’t have Jon, not really.”

Margaery took her hands again and something wistful swept over her face. Daenerys knew whatever she said next… it would change everything. 

“Dany, that man loves you,” she murmured and Daenerys felt her heart stop, “he really, really loves you and I know that’s scary and it’s not what you expected, but it’s good and it’s _real._ ”

Her chest felt too tight, emotions she couldn’t begin to decipher coursing through her body. She didn’t know if it was true. She had no _way_ of knowing, given how guarded he was. He was a man of few words and none when it came to his feelings. He was impossible to read, always such a mystery to her.

Except, a small niggling voice said in the back of her mind, sometimes he looked at her like he couldn’t see anything else.

He had told her he wanted her, that he cared about her feelings and worried about her and missed her when she was gone. He was a man of great violence but hidden depths.

She couldn’t think about it much more because suddenly he was there, standing by Robb Stark in the doorway.

They tipped their heads in acknowledgement as they walked into the room, wearing matching solemn expressions. Robb came to stand next to his wife, gently placing a hand on her shoulder. Margaery brought her hand up and covered it, giving it a little squeeze.

It was silent for a moment as they all tried to navigate this new terrain.

Daenerys brushed a tear away from her flushed cheek.

“Daenerys,” Robb spoke after a beat, his voice low and gruff, “it must have taken a great deal of courage to do what you did.”

Daenerys looked at him, her surprise evident on her face.

“I understand you’re suspicious,” he said smoothly, his wife and Jon’s eyes on him too, “I would be too. But recent events, along with my wife bending my ear, have opened my eyes a little. We have so many enemies now. The Stags and the Lions grow stronger every day—and the Wolves cannot fight a war amongst themselves.”

“What are you saying?” Daenerys asked, too tired to dance around the issue.

“I’m saying I don’t trust you,” he said, “not completely. But I trust my wife and my brother… and I understand that you’re not Viserys. I’m _saying_ , I’m not going to make things harder for you.”

It wasn’t everything, but it was something.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys stayed with Jon that evening, wrapped up in him in one of Highgarden’s spare rooms.

She watched him as he slept, the soft rise and fall of his chest, the little furrow to his brow.

He even brooded when he was unconscious, she thought wryly.

He hadn’t touched her, sympathetic to her pain, but she found she wanted him more than ever. She wanted his kisses to drown it all out, his touch, always so electric on her skin. She wanted him with such an intensity, she was practically shaking with it.

She let her mind go blank as she stripped down to her panties and swung a leg over him. She settled in his lap and leaned down, brushing her mouth against his. He shifted in his sleep but didn’t wake. She felt a frantic need sweep over her, a need to feel him, moving over her and under her and inside her. She was still bewildered by her body’s response to him.

“Wake up,” she leaned down and whispered against his mouth, “I want to fuck.”

He shifted again and she felt something else stir between her legs. His cock was waking, even if he wasn’t, and she rolled her hips against it. She started to kiss his neck and smiled in triumph when she felt his hands slowly sliding up her thighs.

He woke with a flutter of his eyelids, letting out a sleepy groan.

“I want you,” she pleaded as she turned her head, capturing his lips. It took him a lazy moment to return it, her tongue sweeping into his mouth and dominating the kiss.

“You have me,” he murmured throatily when she pulled away, “always.”

 _Always,_ the word spread warmth in her chest. 

Her hand flew to his cock, giving it steady pumps. There was a flash of white as he hissed through his teeth, a low sound of surprise, and his head tipped back slightly as she stroked him. She squeezed the tip before letting go and pushing his bottoms down his legs, positioning her wet cunt over him. His expert fingers danced their way down her body before he slipped a hand under her panties, greeting her wet readiness.

“Wait,” he bit out as she shoved her panties to the side and prepared to take him inside her.

“What?”

“You’re not thinking clearly.”

She scoffed, sitting back on his thighs.

“I want to fuck,” she said stubbornly, conveniently ignoring the reasons why.

“Aye, you said that already.”

“So fuck me,” she demanded, grabbing his hand and forcing it between her wet thighs. His fingers barely brushed her folds before he groaned and pulled his hand away - even though it looked like it physically pained him to do so. She leant down to take his mouth again.

“Daenerys,” he hissed between kisses, “just—wait. Talk to me.”

She huffed in defeat, sitting up again.

" _You_ want to talk?" she blinked, letting out a little incredulous scoff, " _you_?" 

He didn't answer, just waited for her with that irritatingly patient expression. 

“What’s _wrong_ with you?” she asked angrily, hysteria bubbling in the pit of her stomach, “everything hurts and you're the only one who makes me feel better and I just—I _need_ you. I need you to take him away.”

A flicker of understanding passed through his dark eyes.

“Who?” he prodded gently.

“My brother,” she whispered back, a wave of sickness roiling over her, “I killed my _brother_.”

Jon’s expression remained cool, unreadable other than a little furrow to his brow.

“I can’t absolve you of your sins, Daenerys,” he said quietly, “it’s not my place to do so, and I have sins of my own. But the way I see it, Viserys lost the right to plead family ties the first time he hurt you.” 

She bit her bottom lip to stop it from trembling.

“What would you have done?”

His reply was blunt, simple and matter of fact.

“I wouldn’t have hesitated.”

She blinked, still a little distraught, and waited for him to continue.

“I’ve done many things I’m not proud of—and I’ve killed better men than Viserys Targaryen.”

“But none of them were your brother,” she insisted brokenly, “none of them were Robb.”

He arched a brow, a tiny flicker of surprise passing over his feature.

“Robb is a good man,” he argued, “Viserys wasn’t.”

She laughed, bitter and harsh, as his hands trailed to her behind. She could still feel his cock, hard and throbbing, against her aching cunt. She ground against it, not missing how his tough expression cracked and faltered.

“You make it sound so easy.”

“It’s not,” he said as her hands danced up his chest, “it’s not easy, it’s really hard, and you’ll have to work at it every day. You’ll have to be strong.”

She didn’t realise she was crying until his thumb came up to brush a tear from her flushed cheek. 

“I don’t know how,” she admitted.

“I will help you.”

She sighed, leaning into his touch. His thumb travelled down to her mouth then, the pad running gently over her bottom lip. She opened her mouth and drew it inside, her tongue swirling over the digit and her teeth gently clamping down. Something danced behind his eyes, the air thinning between them, and this time, when she held his gaze and pushed the fabric of her panties to the side, he didn’t stop her.

She took his cock in her hand and sank down onto it, enveloping him in her warmth.

A low groan rumbled from his chest as she set a steady pace, her eyes rolling back in her head as she ground down onto his pelvis with every thrust. His hands gripped her ass, lifting her up and down on his cock.

She had been intending to ride him until his knees buckled and his eyes rolled. She wanted it to be a mindless fuck, brutal and rough and unfeeling. She wanted only to drive Viserys’ ghost away, to feel nothing at all.

Now she felt nothing and everything—all at once.

His hands moved to her waist, guiding her up and down his cock as his eyes remained fixated on where they joined. They were dark, pupils blown to black, and heat rose within her as their bodies moved faster in union.

“Fuck me harder,” he growled, more willing to accept her desire, her desperation, now he’d gotten her to speak the motivation behind it, “fuck me how you want to.”

She moaned, emboldened by his willingness to let her use him. She clenched tight around his hard length, drawing a groan from his lips.

She could feel a burn in her thighs, her breath escaping her in harsh pants of exertion, as she rode him harder. She set the pace, controlled the pace, moulding him like clay beneath her. She leaned down to balance on her forearms as she did so, the angle allowing him to take a pert nipple in his mouth. He rolled it between his teeth, giving it a tug before his tongue lathed it.

He sat up, his arms wrapping around her waist as she continued grinding down on him.

“You’re perfect,” he rasped into her ear, a prayer buried in her hair, “perfect and lovely and _mine_. You have no idea what you do to me, Daenerys… what you’ve always done to me.”

She whimpered, her thighs trembling around him, her fingers tangling in his black hair. She tugged it, making him hiss, and captured his mouth in a messy kiss.

His tongue swept into her mouth, tangling with hers, fighting to control something that had never been theirs to control.

She saw that now. She saw herself walking towards him in that smoky club, a spark to fire a chain of unstoppable events. She saw them pulling away from each other only to come right back, two flames dancing intricately entwined.

“That’s it,” he murmured when her breath caught and she started to tremble. He read her body like a book, drawing reactions she hadn’t known she could feel, and his voice was dark and low when he whispered, “give it to me.”

She cried out, knowing he wasn’t talking about sex or orgasms, even if the words did bring her release crashing over her. He wanted her pain, her suffering, wanted her to give it to him so she didn’t have to carry it alone. 

She could taste her tears when she kissed him, his cock pulsing hot and hard as he came inside her.

She held on and he held on back.

 _Mine,_ the word flew through her mind, _my wolf._

Her hair fell like an icy veil around them, protecting them from the world, as his hands came up to cup her face. His expression was soft, softer than she’d ever seen it, almost reverent.

“Daenerys,” he whispered like a prayer against her mouth, “Daenerys, _Daenerys_.”

“You’re so good,” she rested her forehead on his, warm and grateful for him, “so good for me.”

Maybe it was because Jon had only ever thought he was bad, but he kissed her so fiercely, it sure as hell felt like love.  
  


* * *

  
“I don’t want to go home.”

She admitted an hour later, when the moon shined through the window and bathed them in warm light.

“Hmm?” his answer was groggy, hazy with pleasure from the multiple orgasms they’d given each other.

“There’s so much I have to do. Most of our men hated Viserys. I don’t think they’ll ask questions, but it doesn’t mean they’ll embrace me. Then there’s the issue of Drogo and how I’m going to build my legacy. So many bridges to build.”

“You’ll find your way,” he said simply, “one day at a time.”

She sighed, adjusting her head so she could see him better. She was lying on her front, arms crossed over the pillow and cheek resting on them. His finger lazily trailed electric heat down the length of her naked spine.

“I know what I want to do first.”

He arched a brow and waited for her to continue.

“I’d like to go North,” she said and she didn’t miss the way he stiffened, “I'd like to meet with your father.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’s right, of course,” she teased, standing up and walking towards him, “I am too good for you.”
> 
> She was joking—she didn’t feel that way at all—but as she slowly wound her arms around his waist, his mouth twitched under his beard.
> 
> “Well, I’ve always known that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I listened to 13 Beaches by Lana Del Rey a lot writing this chapter (where the picture below is from). It's a mood.

* * *

  
“It’s been a long time,” Barristan Selmy’s voice was dry but not unkind as he stood with his hands clasped behind him.

Daenerys smiled, standing up and walking around the desk to give him a kiss on the cheek. She took those hands and held them in her own, giving them a gentle squeeze. Her eyes drifted from him to Jorah – who had let him in the Mansion - and back again.

“How long exactly?” she asked casually as she gestured for him to sit down and returned to her own seat behind the desk. Jorah sat down too and she tapped her manicured nails against the wood as she waited for Barristan’s reply.

“Twenty years, maybe more.”

“A lifetime,” she answered coolly.

“ _Your_ lifetime,” he countered, “more or less.”

She nodded, sitting back in her seat. She was just a child when he left, devastated by Rhaegar’s death and disgusted with the path her father was treading. Towards the end, it hadn’t mattered to Aerys whether a man was guilty or innocent, whether women and children were involved, whether something was right or wrong. An enemy was an enemy and he was blinded by hate.

“Before we begin, I understand that you have no allegiance to me,” Daenerys started cautiously, “you don’t have to help me. I know my family have done some terrible things but I want you to know that I am not my father. I’m not my brother. I intend to take the Family in an entirely different direction—and I would like to begin by mending the bridge between us.”

Barristan tipped a brow, a surprised expression flickering over his ageing face. She caught Jorah’s small smile and noticed how he looked proud and impressed and a little surprised too.

“I loved your brother as if he were my own,” he said quietly, pain glinting behind his eyes at the mention of Rhaegar, “I served your father as well as I could. You must understand, I never _wanted_ to be disloyal to the Family.”

Daenerys nodded because she _did_ understand—Aerys and Viserys were difficult men who did not inspire devotion. She intended to be different.

“If you wanted to come back, to return to the Dragons’ service, I would be delighted to have you,” she said, “and I promise to serve the Family as well as I can. We have been left isolated and alone due to my father and brother’s incompetence. I want to repair old alliances and build new ones. And I want to start with the Wolves.”

Barristan blinked before he smiled—and Daenerys knew she had him.

“How do you intend to do that?”

“My father and Viserys always said that Rhaegar would never have raped Lyanna,” she started, “I gather that he never told them much, but they were insistent it must have been consensual. I don’t particularly trust their words but I do trust Jorah, and he said the same.”

“Yes,” Barristan agreed, “I knew Rhaegar better than anyone and he was good and kind. He told me that they were married, that they eloped in secret, but he was murdered soon after. I tried to tell Lyanna’s father, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“Do you have any proof at all?” she asked, filled with sadness that hadn’t known Rhaegar but had been left with Viserys instead, “any evidence that I could present to Ned Stark?”

He seemed to think for a moment before his eyes lit up with recognition.

“Rhaegar gave me something—a ring. A _wolf_ ring, inscribed with the initials _L.S_. He said Lyanna had his Dragon one. They exchanged them as tokens of their love, symbolic of belonging to each other. He gave it to me for in-case anything bad happened to him. It was almost as if he knew.”

Daenerys tried to process this information, the wolf ring around her own neck burning her skin under her shirt.

“Why didn’t you tell my father and Lyanna’s?”

“I did. Your father didn’t care, he said it was done. And Rickard was so twisted by his grief, he couldn’t hear me.”

“Do you still have it?”

“The ring?” he asked, “yes, I’ve kept it safe.”

“Can I have it?”

He faltered for only a moment before his jaw locked and he nodded.

“It probably won’t be enough,” he warned, “not for Ned Stark.”

“Aerys still murdered his father and brother,” Jorah pointed out.

“Yes, but I’m not Aerys. If I could make him believe this about Rhaegar and Lyanna, and remind him of what I did for Rickon, perhaps he’ll understand that I'm different to Viserys and my father.”

Barristan nodded, his eyes drifting over her like he was taking her in. He sat back in his chair slightly and seemed impressed with what he saw—her temperate nature and calmness.

“You’ve grown into quite the woman, Daenerys.”

She gave him a gentle smile.

“So I’ve been told.”  
  


* * *

  
With its vast wilderness, its pine-covered hills and snow-capped mountains, the North was so very different to the South.

It was different to anywhere Daenerys had ever been. Winterfell was cold and harsh, freezing from the Wall to the north to the Neck to the south.

As she climbed the steps to the Stark Mansion, the wind lashed at her like a whip. It whistled through her bones and made her shiver.

She pulled her coat tighter around her.

Jon must have noticed because he gave a little chuckle, arching a brow.

“You’ll get used to it,” he said simply.

She thought that unlikely but she smiled nonetheless—and held her breath as he unlocked the front door.  
  
The first thing she noticed was how different their mansions were.

As she walked through the halls, she saw how the Wolves weren’t quite as extravagant as the Dragons. They had fine furniture and paintings, but there was less gold adorning the walls, their light emanating from soft, old fashioned candles rather than diamond chandeliers.

The main difference, however, wasn’t in what they had or the decoration.

It was in the _feel_ of the place.

The Stark Mansion was warm.

The walls practically vibrated with happiness and life and love. She could hear Arya Stark laughing upstairs, a musical giggle as she played with Rickon, and she could see Catelyn Stark lovingly cupping Sansa’s growing bump in the kitchen. While the Dragons hung intimidating portraits of powerful ancestors from eras long past, the Wolves lined their walls with pictures of each other. There was a large family portrait hanging in the hall, a time before Bran was in a wheelchair and where Catelyn gripped Arya’s shoulders to keep her under control and Rickon was just a baby. There was a picture of Sansa beaming at her graduation and one of Robb and Margaery on their wedding day.

There were none of Jon.

She pointed it out and he gave a little shrug, his expression guarded and unreadable. The same. He was a walking, talking reminder of Ned’s betrayal, his infidelity, and she knew how Catelyn Stark felt about that.

Still, Daenerys thought it was unfair, and her heart ached for him.

“My father will be back soon,” his voice was quiet as he led them into Ned’s study, “we should wait here.”

She swallowed, pushing down her nerves.

“Jumping right in, huh?”

Jon shrugged, smoothly clasping his hands behind his back.

“Why waste time?”

As she sat down on one of the leather chairs, he walked over to the liquor cabinet. He was pouring what looked like expensive whiskey into two crystal glasses when the office door flew open.

“Oh my god, you’re _actually_ here,” Arya Stark gaped, wide eyes blinking.

Jon’s brows drew into a frown, a muscle in his jaw ticking.

“ _Arya_ ,” his accent was thick as he practically growled her name, “you know you shouldn’t be in here. Get out.”

She rolled her eyes, stepping further inside instead. She closed the door behind her and sat down in the chair next to Daenerys. She watched her for a moment, her Stark-grey eyes flickering over her like she was taking her in.

Daenerys arched a brow in response, waiting for her to speak.

“What’s it like being head of your own family?” she asked excitedly but she was speaking again before Daenerys could even think of an answer, “is it true the Targaryens used to ride _dragons_? Is it true you can walk through fire? What happened to your brother? Robb and Jon said the Stags or Lions killed him but Gendry says that’s not true.”

Jon’s frown was deepening with every question she asked and he came to stand between them, wordlessly passing Daenerys a glass. She gratefully took it and tipped it back, the whiskey scorching down her throat and leaving a pleasant burn.

“I thought I told you to stay away from Gendry Baratheon," Jon said lowly.

Arya looked a little sheepish, her throat moving as she swallowed.

“We’re just friends,” she muttered and Daenerys didn’t even _know_ her, but she could tell she was lying. The Wolves were abysmal liars, “he’s good to me.”

Jon’s expression darkened.

“He better fucking not be.”

Arya rolled her eyes, crossing her legs on the seat. She reached for his whiskey glass and he raised a brow and tutted, drawing his hand back. Arya sighed in exasperation before she turned her attention on Daenerys.

“So?”

Daenerys paused, her gaze dragging slowly from the girl to Jon and back again.

“So?” she asked.

Arya blinked at her blankly.

Daenerys sighed.

“There are… rumours,” she started diplomatically, “ _legends_ … that dictate the Targaryens used to ride dragons, many centuries ago. My father taught me some of their names. Baelon and his dragon Vhagar, Baelia and Moondancer, Viserys, my brother’s namesake, and Balerion... as I say, just stories. I really couldn’t say if they are true. What I _can_ say is I’m certainly not immune to fire—and perhaps what happened to my brother is a story for another day.”

Arya hung on her every word, unmistakable awe and wonderment shining behind her eyes. No-one had ever looked at Daenerys like that, like she was someone to be admired, to be emulated, and indulgent as it may be, she found she quite liked how it felt.

“You’re very cool,” Arya decided after a moment, casually sitting back in the chair, “I’ve heard about you _obviously,_ but I never thought I’d see you in my house.”

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” Daenerys smiled, “but I’m nothing of the sort.”

“Are you kidding?” Arya’s thick brows rose to her hairline, “you’re a _Targaryen_. You’re a fucking _legend._ You’re way too good for my brother.”

She said the last part with a playful scoff, a smirk toying on her lips. Jon rolled his eyes, placing his whiskey glass down on the desk and gently grabbing her by the scuff of the neck.

“Alright, that’s enough, Arya.”

Daenerys pursed her lips to hide her smile as Jon practically picked his sister up and pushed her out the door, ignoring her disappointed insistence that she had more questions. He slammed the door behind her, leaning against it and briefly closing his eyes.

She watched the soft rise and fall of his chest as he took an impatient breath.

“She’s right, of course,” she teased, standing up and walking towards him, “I am too good for you.”

She was joking—she didn’t feel that way at all—but as she slowly wound her arms around his waist, his mouth twitched under his beard.

“Well, I’ve always known that.”

His hands cupped her face as he pulled her in for a kiss.

She melted into him, pliant under his warm lips. His mouth slanted over hers, kissing her gently as he walked them forward until her lower back was bumping into his father’s desk. She let out a little grunt which he swallowed as his hands travelled to the backs of her knees. Without breaking away from her mouth, he smoothly lifted her onto the surface.

His mouth moved to her neck, planting hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of her skin. She tipped her head back, her hands curling around the edge of the desk as he sucked a bloom into her collarbone. His hands travelled up her thighs, slowly pushing her skirt up, and she felt the curve of his mouth against her neck when he found her wet and wanting for him.

“I want to fuck you,” he declared bluntly. His voice was a low northern husk that sent a shiver rocketing down her spine and she fought back her desire.

“We shouldn’t,” she insisted breathlessly, her eyelashes fluttering as his fingers stroked her through her damp underwear, “we shouldn’t be doing this.”

“We should,” he muttered back, “we should always be doing this.”

She let out a little laugh, an ache in her chest. He didn’t say much—so quiet and reserved—but he was capable of beautiful words. He could be poetic without even knowing it.

Still, she had a job to do and she had to see it through.

“I hardly think your father walking in on you fucking me on his desk is going to strengthen my position.”

He pulled back, his hands resting on her thighs.

“I thought you liked taking risks,” he said with an arch of his brow, tipping his head to the side.

Her expression became more serious then, a flicker of weakness as she gently cupped his cheek.

“Not when it comes to this.”

He seemed to understand, something softer sweeping over his features before he nodded and took a step back.

“You’ll be great,” he murmured after a beat, turning his head so he could lay a gentle kiss on her palm.

She sighed and prayed he was right.  
  


* * *

  
Eddard Stark carried himself like a northerner.

He was stoic and stiff, his expression barely changing as he opened his office door and saw a Dragon inside. There was the briefest flicker of something akin to surprise, but he quickly pushed it down, and Daenerys envied that calm energy he carried.

As he closed the door and walked steadily to his desk, Daenerys’ eyes slid to Jon. He was sitting next to her, an equally guarded expression on his face, and she was struck by how similar they were. With their melancholy, dark features and hair half pulled back, there was no mistaking they were father and son.

When he spoke, he sounded like Jon too, his thick northern accent just slightly deeper.

“When you said you wanted us to meet, I didn’t expect it to be quite so soon.”

“Father, Daenerys Targaryen,” Jon introduced, “Daenerys, this is Ned Stark.”

She stood to lean over the desk, extending her hand. Ned’s jaw slid to the side before he, albeit reluctantly, shook her hand. His grip was firm and strong and she hoped her palms weren’t too clammy.

“How can I help you, Miss Targaryen?”

He cut to the chase as they sat down again, one hand resting on top of the other on the surface of his desk.

“I would like to discuss a potential alliance between our families,” she figured if he wanted to be curt, she would be too, and she wasted no time on pleasantries, “my father and brother were not good men and I know they hurt you. I want to apologise on their behalf—but I also want to prove that I am not them. I am not your enemy.”

It was hard to tell if Ned was moved or not, he gave so little away.

“I understand you’re important to Jon,” he started, his dark eyes flicking between them, “I never imagined I’d let a Dragon into my home, but for the love I bear my son, I will listen to what you have to say.”

Jon tipped his chin in a curt nod of acknowledgement and Daenerys took it as her cue to begin.

“I have nothing but respect for the Wolves. I see no reason why we should all hate each other—merely for the sins committed by our family members. I would also like to mend the rift between my family and Dorne. That is where I will turn my attention next. If successful, I will hold much of the South in my hand. If we were… _friends_ … I’m sure I don’t need to tell you how beneficial that would be to you. Together, we could take down the Lions and the Stags. They are the true enemies.”

He remained silent throughout her speech, his gaze penetrating as he took her in.

“Aye, it all sounds very simple,” he said eventually, but his voice was dry and not particularly kind, “you are young. You both are. You don’t yet know how the Five Families operate. You’re talking about building and smashing alliances that have been in place for decades.”

“Just because things are old, does not mean they are right,” she fired back without missing a beat, “don’t you agree?”

His jaw ticked then, his eyes narrowing.

“Forgive me, Miss Targaryen, but I don’t know you,” his brows furrowed into that heavy, solemn expression, “all I know is your father murdered my father and my brother too—and that _your_ brother raped my sister.”

“But he didn’t,” she couldn’t defend her father, but she countered the point about her brother at least, “Rhaegar loved Lyanna—and she loved him.”

She could feel the heat of Jon’s incredulous gaze on her, like he couldn’t believe she was arguing this. Ned looked angry too, his expression darkening, and she reached into her purse before he could say anything else.

“I can prove it,” she said quickly, placing the ring Barristan gave her on the desk. She slid it towards him, the steel glimmering in the light.

Ned blinked, picking the ring up and turning it over in his hands.

“Where did you get this?”

When he spoke, his voice was deathly quiet. It hung dangerously in the air, making her shiver.

“Rhaegar gave it to our family friend,” she explained, “ _proof_ —for in-case anything happened to him. Your father didn’t believe him and my father didn’t care. Look at it, Mr Stark. It has her initials. She had my brother’s. If you still have her possessions, it could be here somewhere.”

Ned’s eyes were focused on the ring, his thumb gently swiping over the engraving. He was a guarded man but the tortured expression that swept over his face was unmistakable. It looked like it hurt to breathe, painful memories shining behind his glassy eyes, and Daenerys felt a sharp pang of sympathy for him.

In that moment, he wasn’t Eddard Stark, powerful mob boss and head of the Stark dynasty. He was just a brother who had loved his sister—who missed her, who had failed to protect her and keep her safe.

Ned’s attention was still transfixed on the ring. When Jon spoke, it looked like he didn’t hear him.

“It’s worth looking into at least,” he tried softly, “it’s obviously hers—and you know what it means when a Wolf gives their ring to another. She must have loved him very much.”

Daenerys felt her eyes and throat burn, the significance of his words not lost on her.

He wasn’t talking to her, but she heard his unspoken confession all the same.

“He could have stolen it,” Ned said but his voice was thin and hoarse.

“Well, then she wouldn’t have his,” Daenerys argued coolly.

“We can look,” Jon insisted, “you’ve kept her room pretty much how she left it. We still have her possessions. And besides, why do we have to live in the past? You’re a good man. You try to be fair and just—to reward good deeds and punish bad ones. Daenerys was the one who brought Rickon back to us.”

Ned’s eyes flashed dangerously at the mention of his youngest son’s kidnapping but he quickly got himself under control.

“Aye, I suppose that’s true,” he conceded a little reluctantly, “you’ve given me much to think about, Miss Targaryen.”

“But you _will_ think about it?” she asked, arching a perfect brow.

He sat forward, his hands tenting over his mouth.

“It’s late,” he said, voice clipped, “and you’ve had a long journey. You should get some rest.”

Jon stood, moving behind her chair. He placed his hands on the back of it.

“We can go to the apartment in Wintertown,” he said, but it sounded like a question.

Ned sighed, looking torn for a moment, before he shook his head.

“The roads are icy—” he stopped to let his dark eyes flicker over his son with a disparaging quirk of his brow, “—and I’m sure you’ve been drinking.”

Jon gave a casual shrug, extending his hand. Daenerys took it, standing up and clasping her hands in-front of her.

“Thank you for hearing me out, Mr Stark,” she said, “I hope you’ll consider what I’ve said.”

“Goodnight, Miss Targaryen.”

Ned said simply—and showed them the door.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys held her breath as she stood in-front of the floor length mirror. Jon smoothly brushed her hair over one shoulder, allowing his mouth access to her neck. His breath was hot and warm as his lips travelled the length of her skin.

She felt the grit of his beard as he kissed her neck, his arms travelling to her waist. He pulled her in, tugging her by the hips until she could feel the hard length of him pressing against her ass. Despite her weak protestations, she sighed and melted into him, her eyelids fluttering as his fingers toyed with the belt of her dressing gown.

She was naked underneath, her nipples pebbling through the fabric, hard under his touch and the cool northern air. She was really pushing her luck. The last thing she needed was for Ned Stark to hear the evidence of what his son did to her, the hot little moans his talented mouth and hands coaxed out of her.

But his _hands—_

Her breath caught on a gasp as he pushed the dressing gown open and slipped his fingers between her thighs.

“So wet for me already,” he murmured into her hair, two fingers spreading her open and finding her clit. He stroked it in tight little circles, bringing her to the edge and dragging her right back.

She pursed her lips to hold in her moan and arched her back, pushing her ass into his groin. He gave a little grunt, a throaty growl, as his teeth tugged her earlobe. His other hand came up to her neck, sliding up until he could cradle her face and angle it for his mouth.

He kissed her, his lips sliding over hers and his tongue licking inside. His other hand continued to toy between her thighs before she broke away with a desperate gasp.

“You’re insatiable.”

She felt the curve of his lips against her mouth as he smirked.

“Aye,” he said simply and slipped two fingers inside her.

Her hips rolled, desperate to pull him further inside. Her head tipped back, resting on his shoulder as he returned to kissing her neck. He sucked hard enough to leave a mark before his tongue lathed the tender skin, his mouth dragging to her ear. Just as she started to feel that coil wind tight in the pit of her belly, he withdrew his fingers. She moaned in frustration, grinding against his hard cock as his hand covered her own.

It took her a moment to realise his thumb was swiping gently over her bare ring finger.

“Don’t marry him,” he murmured into her hair. “ _Please_.”

The word made her pause, made her ache. It was a word he rarely said.

“What?”

He pulled back, briefly making eye contact with her in the mirror before he slowly turned her around.

He picked her hand up, brushing over where her ring should be again.

“You heard me.”

She swallowed past the lump in her throat, the air white hot and thin between them.

“Why?”

“You know why.”

She tugged her dressing gown around her, covering herself up. She tied the belt, toying with it idly. She supposed she _did_ know. She knew how she felt about him, what was between them—this connection burning under the skin. It was just hard to say the words, hard to be cut open and laid bare and vulnerable.

“When we first met, you were so sure Rhaegar raped Lyanna. As soon as I showed you that ring, you believed differently.”

“Aye, and I told you why,” he said, his voice low and smooth, “Lyanna was a Wolf. She shared my blood. I know what giving your brother that ring would have meant to her. I know why she did it.” 

She looked at him, half-bathed in light and strong and beautiful and _hers._

“Why?”

“She did it because she loved him—” he said, his dark eyes intense and sincere, and Daenerys held her breath, “—the same way I love you.”

She felt the words in her chest, like a vice around her heart.

“And how do you love me?”

“In all the ways I have no right to.”

His voice was quiet, low and dark and deliciously northern.

It was too much and she felt herself retreating, her instinct to run away.

“It’s been a long day,” she whispered, “you’re just saying that because you’re tired and confused.”

His expression darkened, his brows pulling into a frown.

“Do you think I’m the sort of man who just _says things_?” he asked fiercely, “I’m not one of your southern boys, telling you what you want to hear. I’m not afraid to hurt your feelings—you can take it.”

She remembered what he’d said once, all matter of fact and tied up in her.

_You are no poet, Jon Snow._

_Aye, I’m not. But I’m honest and I’m real and I’d never lie to you._

“You wouldn’t lie to me.”

He shook his head.

“No, I wouldn’t,” he took a step towards her, holding her face in his hands, “and I think you’re the one who’s confused—because you’re scared.”

She briefly closed her eyes, her hands travelling to his wrists. She held them as he held her, something delicate and new unfolding between them.

“I’m so tired of being scared,” she admitted, a burning sensation behind her eyes as she opened them.

“Then don’t be,” he said like it was simple, his thumb swiping over her cheekbone. “I’d never hurt you.”

She knew he wouldn’t. Sometimes it felt like he’d kill anyone who did—that he’d rip the world apart just to get to her.

_Don’t be._

The words hit her with the force of a tidal wave. Her head rushed, a cloud lifting, and everything seemed clear for the first time in years. She had been so blinded by what she should and shouldn’t do, by their pasts, by the things keeping them apart… all of it had stopped her from seeing how much she loved him.

She’d loved him from the moment she met him. She had changed and he had changed, but _that_ hadn’t. When all else failed, that remained the same. Unwavering. They had to make it work because it made no sense to be apart.

“What if your father won’t accept me?”

His mouth twitched under his beard. “We’ll find a way.”

Everything was so _simple_ for him, so black and white, she was almost jealous.

“How can you be so sure everything will be okay?”

“Because it has to be,” he fired back easily, casually, and his thumb rolled her bottom lip from where she had it grasped anxiously between her teeth, “because there is no version of my life without you in it.”

Her eyes and throat burned as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into an embrace. His own arms twined around her waist.

“I love you too, you know,” she whispered into the hollow of his throat, noticing how the words made him hold her slightly tighter, “ _my_ _wolf._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope the pacing was okay - it felt like the right moment for them to say it, but I always worry I drop the L-bomb too quickly or too late in stories... 
> 
> Hope you enjoyed!


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I wish you’d never loved her,” she muttered and it was probably the most childish and most honest thing she’d ever said.
> 
> Jon shook his head, a muscle near his right ear ticking as he clenched the strong line of his jaw. 
> 
> He didn’t say anything else and they drove on, close but never further apart.

  
  


* * *

  
Most of the time, Daenerys liked Jon’s reserve.

She liked how calm he was, how the air around him was still and quiet. She thought it was a rare gift, how easily he commanded attention. He was one of those men people gravitated towards and they _listened_ to him and they just wanted to be near him—and he didn’t even try.

It wasn’t in the cards for him, with Robb the heir to the Stark dynasty, but she thought he would make a good leader one day.

When she felt unsteady, burning too hot and too bright, he was always there to catch her, someone to lean on. He could calm her with a little twitch of his mouth, an amused smile, a flash of white teeth with a cigarette hanging between them. He could wrap her up in his arms and let her bury her nose in the hollow of his throat—let her breathe him in, all whiskey and smoke—and she’d feel safe.

Yes, _most_ of the time, Daenerys liked Jon’s reserve.

But there were some times, times like these, where she wanted to shake him and scream.

“It’s done, Daenerys,” he said for the third time, his fingers drumming on the steering wheel. His rings glittered in the glow of Winterfell’s setting sun and she imagined what those hands would have looked like against paler skin, wrapped around hair kissed by fire.

She wanted to be brave and strong—and she _was—_ but her jealousy was almost blinding. Perhaps it was the dragon in her, she mused, and she pushed for more.

“Is it?”

He sighed, one hand lifting from the steering wheel to rub tiredly over his face.

“She’s gone,” he said simply, curtly.

She turned her head and stared out the passenger window.

“Everyone says you loved her.”

Jon didn’t say anything and she wished she could turn her head, wished she wasn’t so stubborn, because she wanted to see his expression.

“Sansa and Arya were telling me about her,” she added when it was clear he wasn’t going to say anything else.

“Why?”

She shrugged because she didn’t really know why. They had just been standing in the kitchen and once Arya had finished hounding her with questions, talk had turned to _types._ Sansa had curiously blushed at Theon’s name and scowled at Harry’s and Arya let it slip that Jon had a weakness for redheads.

“She just came up,” she mumbled, still staring out the window like her life depended on it.

“Right,” Jon finally answered and Daenerys hated it when his voice went all blank like that.

“Sansa and Arya said she left you. They said she couldn’t cope with your lifestyle and she ran off with someone else, someone normal.”

She knew he wouldn’t take offence because she wasn’t normal either. She understood this world and was as much a part of it as he was. Perhaps they could only be with each other for that reason—either that or they would have to be alone. That thought made Daenerys sad and she pushed it down.

She could feel the heat of his eyes on her then. She didn’t want to look but she swore he had some sort of mind power over her because her head turned to the side anyway. He was staring at her, his expression hard and stern, and he held her gaze for a beat before he turned back to the road.

“Sansa and Arya don’t know shit.”

His voice was quiet but sharp and Daenerys’ chest hurt.

“I wish you’d never loved her,” she muttered and it was probably the most childish and most honest thing she’d ever said.

Jon shook his head, a muscle near his right ear ticking as he clenched the strong line of his jaw. 

He didn’t say anything else and they drove on, close but never further apart.  
  


* * *

  
Jon stood in the shadow of the doorway later that evening, his arms crossed over his chest.

“I don’t owe you an explanation,” he said stubbornly, even though he was here.

She opened the door wider and let him come inside, closing it behind him. It wasn’t like she had any power here, any control. It was _his_ house, a house that hadn’t accommodated a dragon in decades, and its demands—Catelyn and Ned’s disapproving looks, Sansa’s scepticism, Arya’s questions—were draining her.

“Okay.”

Jon shook his head, uncharacteristic impatience flickering over his features.

“Why does it matter?” he asked incredulously, “Ygritte is my past. Yes, I loved her—but that was then and it’s done _._ ”

His voice was all matter of fact, his tone final, and she _really_ wished he hadn’t said her name. It angered her, how she was sickeningly, _painfully_ jealous of a ghost. She hated how her love for him brought out the worst in her, as well as the best, all the good and bad and messy and ugly. She was a leader now, head of her own family, but she was also a young woman raised amongst opulent wealth; she could still be spoilt and petulant and, if she was honest, a little bratty.

At the back of her mind, she wondered why she was being so irrational. Her hormones were all over the place, her emotions up and down, rocketing through her like hurricanes she couldn’t control.

He wouldn’t pander to her, wouldn’t indulge her insecurities. He was a northern man, unapologetically gruff and honest, sometimes painfully honest, and she appreciated that _but_ —

It wouldn’t kill him to yield. It wouldn’t kill him to just give a _little,_ not after months of leaving each other in the dark.

“Would you still be with her if she hadn’t left?” she asked, “Sansa said you were crazy about her and Arya said—”

“Jesus,” he muttered, pausing to press the heels of his hands into his eyes. When he brought them down again, his eyes were a little wilder, “ _Sansa said, Arya said—_ don’t you ever think for yourself? This whole goddamn family has opinions for shit they know nothing about. _You_ know me, okay? In and out, in a way neither of them do. So just… stop.”

His voice trailed off and Daenerys bit the inside of her cheek because while it _was_ true that she knew him—there was a lot she didn’t know. Like what him and Robb did when they disappeared for weeks on end, or what he was thinking about when he suddenly got that glazed, faraway look in his eye or what possessed him to fight with the Baratheons and pretend nothing happened after. 

“You don’t like to be vulnerable, I get that,” she said, her tone a little harder, “it’s hard for me too. But we’re in this now, it’s happened, and we should be honest with each other. You don’t get to just run away—”

“Do I _ever_?” he suddenly raged, his temper flaring like a man pushed too far, “don’t stand there and act like I don’t give you anything because I’m always, _always_ around for you. I’m here. I’ve always _been_ here, even when it hurts, even when I have no right to want you the way I do. I’ve always been honest with you—and me leaving Ygritte really pales in comparison to the fact that you’re _engaged_ right now.”

She bristled under his anger, the words cutting into her because he was right. She had been closed off too, both of them unsteady and unsure, but they were doing their best.

She _was_ engaged, the harsh reality hit her like a bucket of ice water over her head. It was wrong of her to push him about his past when her future was the real obstacle standing between them.

As he calmed, his words finally sunk in.

“You said _you_ left Ygritte?” she blurted out before she shook her head and added, “it doesn’t matter,” because it _didn’t_.

He sighed, running a hand over the beard that was in desperate need of a trim.

"I want you to get to know my sisters,” he started, taking a step towards her, “but there’s so much we keep from them—so much _I_ keep them from. They’re hardly a reliable source of information.”

She nodded, crossing her arms over her chest and rubbing the tops of them.

He continued speaking.

“I don’t have to tell you how dangerous my world is—you know it, you’ve lived it,” he started quietly, “Ygritte hadn’t. She was just a normal girl from a normal town, with the chance of a normal future without me around. I wanted that for her… because this isn’t a life I would have chosen for myself. I let it go on for a while because I loved her very much… but in the end, I had to let her go.”

She nodded, her throat too dry and her chest too tight and when she bowed her head, he lifted a finger under her chin and made her look at him.

“I couldn’t let you go,” he clarified, reading her mind.

“Why?”

“Because if it’s possible, I think I love you even more.”

She sighed, turning her face so she could place a gentle kiss on his palm.

“I love you,” she murmured into the scarred skin, “you’re the only man I’ve ever loved.”

He didn’t smile but his eyes were soft and she kissed him, looping her arms around his neck.

 _The only man I will ever love,_ she added silently as his mouth slanted over hers and he walked her backwards towards the bed.

She closed her eyes as her back hit the mattress—and forgot all about Ygritte.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys bit her nails as she watched Catelyn, Sansa and Arya search Lyanna’s old room, anxiety bubbling in the pit of her stomach.

“This is hopeless,” Sansa moaned, removing her head from a wardrobe and stretching her back. Her top rode up, exposing the slight swell of her belly and she ran a gentle hand over it.

She seemed to be coming to terms with her condition—even if Jon and Robb’s _visit_ to Harry Hardyng hadn’t achieved much. Daenerys had rolled her eyes at the euphemism when Jon had told her about that little trip to the Vale. He’d been tight lipped about it, his expression characteristically still and calm, but the boys could be positively feral when it came to their sisters, and she doubted the trip involved a civil chat over a cup of tea. Harry still refused to acknowledge the baby and the Starks had been left with one less ally. Still, the Falcons were a small faction with little power to start with, and it was a bigger loss to them than it was to the Wolves. Sansa seemed to be coping and Daenerys was glad.

Ned was leaning against the doorframe, his arms folded and his expression stern. It was obvious that he running out of patience—and Daenerys was running out of time.

“We’ve looked everywhere,” Arya insisted glumly, “every drawer, every wardrobe. There’s nothing.”

“It’s not going to be anywhere you expect,” Bran Stark’s voice suddenly pierced the air. Every eye flew to him, sitting in his wheelchair by the doorway.

Daenerys felt a pang of sympathy at the sight of him.

“Whatever you’re looking for… _in Aunt Lyanna’s room_ …” he arched a suspicious brow, “…it’s not going to be obvious. It’s not going to just be in a drawer or wardrobe. You should try hidden compartments, hollow wood, and so on.”

His tone was blank and clinical—and then he wheeled away.

The girls stared at each other for a moment before Arya shrugged.

“He _is_ always right about these things…” she turned to Daenerys, as though to explain, “Bran has, like, this freaky sixth sense. He’s practically clairvoyant.”

Catelyn rolled her eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Arya,” she said, but she was already moving some old clothes and examining the back of a wardrobe.

“Come on, Daddy,” Sansa said brusquely when Ned wasn’t moving, “you should help too.”

Ned’s brows pulled into a frown, a grumble rumbling from his chest before he pushed off the doorframe. Sansa smirked triumphantly and Daenerys imagined she’d had him wrapped around her finger since she was a little girl—and probably even more so now in her condition. It made her jealous again, made her wish fate had dealt her a kinder card, a different father to the one she’d had.

Daenerys sat down on the bed, running her hands over her thighs nervously. This wasn’t her home and Lyanna wasn’t her family, so it didn’t feel right to touch anything. She just watched—and her eyes widened when Ned stopped rifling through one of Lyanna’s bedside drawers and paused.

“What is it?” she asked.

His fist was suspended mid-air. He held it there for a moment before he knocked on the wood, hearing it ring hollow.

They paused in suspense as he moved some things aside and found a hidden compartment, just like Bran said he would.

Daenerys moved over to him, standing by his side and staring down at the contents. There, staring back at her, was a ring just like the one on her finger.

She swallowed, her throat suddenly very dry as Ned gently picked the ring up. As he turned it, the silver dragon glinting in the light, she saw what he saw—the initials _R. T._ emerging clear as day as his thumb swiped the dust away.

“Look,” she whispered, gesturing to what the ring was laying on top of.

It was a picture, a grainy photograph, and Daenerys felt tears burn behind her eyes.

It was Rhaegar with his arms around a beaming Lyanna, the love in both of their eyes clear.

There were so few photographs of her brother. Whether it was through pain or grief or anger or something else, Viserys and Aerys barely spoke of him. She’d never had the chance to know him, to know what kind of man he was; she had been told two conflicting stories her entire life. Now, seeing the joyful look on Lyanna Stark’s face, there could be no doubt which one was true.

“She loved him,” Ned whispered in confirmation, breathing her thoughts out-loud.

He sighed in defeat, a flicker of pain passing over his features as his thumb brushed gently over Lyanna’s face.

Catelyn, Sansa and Arya stared on, looking equal parts stunned and confused, as Ned silently passed Daenerys the ring.

Her heart felt heavy as she clutched it in her hand, the only part of him she had left.

Not a brother she’d had the chance to know—but her brother all the same.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys wiped the side of her mouth with the back of her hand, feeling her skin clammy and flushed.

She sighed as she washed her hands, trying to shake off the worry, telling herself it must be a stomach bug. One of those twenty four hour viruses. She was meeting with Ned in his office in less than an hour and she needed to be on her game.

She jumped when the door opened, her nerves lit and on edge. When she saw Sansa standing in the doorway, her brow arched curiously and her hand still clutching the handle, Daenerys laid a hand over her chest and sighed.

“Sorry,” she breathed, “must have forgotten to lock the door.”

“No,” Sansa shook her head, “it’s fine—I’m sorry for barging in on you.”

Daenerys nodded, shutting the water off and drying her hands on the towel. She went to push past her when Sansa stopped her with a hand on her arm.

“Are you okay?”

Daenerys blinked.

“Oh don't look so surprised,” Sansa scoffed and rolled her eyes, “I’m not _that_ horrible.”

Daenerys gave a little laugh at her sour, pinched expression. 

“No, you’re not horrible,” she appeased her, “it’s just—we’re hardly friends.”

“No, but we’re not enemies,” she shrugged, “not anymore. My father’s going to strike a deal with you, I just know it.”

Daenerys tried to be rational, pushing down the hope that swelled inside her.

“I hope so,” she said, “the Wolves and Dragons have been enemies for too long.”

Sansa nodded clinically, her sharp eyes dragging from the toilet bowl to Daenerys’ clammy forehead and back again. Daenerys swallowed as she arched a perfect brow.

“Were you being sick?”

“No,” the lie flew out of her mouth automatically but Sansa crossed her arms, unimpressed.

“You’re pregnant,” she said bluntly, making Daenerys’ stomach drop.

Her first instinct was to laugh. Her eyes widened and her mouth opened a few times and she _laughed._

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m not pregnant. I’m on the pill and my—” she was about to use her last period as an excuse, but the words caught in her throat and died there when she realised she couldn’t remember when that was.

Sansa’s brow was still arched as she tipped her head to the side.

“Trust me, I was going through _exactly_ what you’re going through just months ago,” her tone was a little sympathetic, but it was still characteristically dry and snippy and _Sansa,_ “all the conflicting emotions, all the confusion. Any mood swings lately, tiredness?”

She hadn’t been particularly tired but she thought back to her sensitivity over Ygritte, how she’d acted a little irrationally and pushed in a way she wouldn’t normally, and the pieces started to fit together.

“Oh my god,” she muttered, her face paling.

“Fuck,” Sansa frowned, her mouth pinching in distaste, “do _not_ faint. Stay there, okay? I took about seven, but I think I still have some tests left.”

Ten minutes later, Daenerys and Sansa were sitting on the edge of the bathtub side by side, staring at the tiny sticks on the bathroom counter.

“How much longer?”

“A minute and a half,” Sansa answered.

“What about now?”

There was an irritated sigh. “A minute and 20 seconds.”

Daenerys tapped her foot on the tile. When she opened her mouth again, Sansa continued before she could ask.

“Are you going to tell Jon?”

A fresh wave of nausea slammed into her.

“I guess I’d have to.”

“He’ll do the right thing,” Sansa said quietly, “he’s not like Harry.”

She turned her head, feeling a twinge of sympathy at the sad expression on her face. She looked so _young_ in that moment, just a scared girl, and Daenerys patted her thigh.

“You’ll be okay,” she said because she knew she would be, “you have an amazing family around you. You’re lucky. I never had anyone.”

“You have us now,” Sansa said quietly, much to her surprise, “even if that test is negative, it’s clear how much you mean to Jon. He’s not letting you go—and we take care of our own.”

Daenerys smiled, feeling a little warmer and a little less sick.

“Thank you, Sansa.”

Sansa gave her hand a squeeze and they sat in silence for another fifty seconds.

“Time’s up.”

Daenerys took a deep breath in, held it, and glanced at the tests on the counter.  
  


* * *

  
“You have to understand,” Ned was speaking lowly, “this is still very strange for me.”

Daenerys tipped her head to the side, an understanding expression on her face. He’d had his entire world turned upside down, everything he thought he knew ripped away like a rug from under his feet. She could be patient. She could let him adjust.

“I understand,” she said smoothly, folding her hands in her lap, “but now I’m sure you can appreciate where I was coming from. We don’t have to be enemies, Mr Stark, because we never were.”

Ned nodded, sitting back in his chair slightly. It was just the two of them now, alone in his grand office, and Daenerys felt a slight twinge of pride at how far she’d come. She didn’t need Jon by her side, or Jorah or Theon. Ned wasn’t looking at her like a child, a weak girl. He was looking at her like the equal she was, worthy of his respect, two leaders of two warring families.

“I do have so many enemies now,” he sighed, running a hand over his face and looking solemn and tired and older than his years, “Robert was my good friend but now he’s gone and the Baratheons are out of control. The Lions have always been cruel and merciless. I have the Roses—a start, but not enough. I suppose I could use your help—and you could use mine.”

“I certainly could,” she nodded, “the North’s wealth and resources would be invaluable to me. I have… commitments that I need to adhere to, people that need satisfying.”

“Buying off, you mean?”

Ned’s voice was dry; he had been in the business a long time, after-all.

Daenerys didn’t see the point in sugar-coating things.

“I have a fiancé across the Narrow Sea,” she said, noticing the way his eyebrow arched, “nothing more than a business transaction, arranged by my late brother. I have no intention of marrying him, and I am under no illusion that he wants to marry me. But he _does_ want money and power—two things I am sorely lacking.”

“You want me to give you money so you can buy off your fiancé?” Ned’s voice was back to dry and unimpressed.

Daenerys knew she had to tread carefully.

“I want you to _lend_ me money, so I can get rid of a problem,” she countered confidently, “and once I build my empire, and restore the Targaryen name to its former glory, I can repay you tenfold. Plus… there is another reason you will want to help me.”

“ _Want_ to?” Ned asked, clearly surprised by her brazenness.

She took a breath, settled her nerves, and ripped the band-aid off.

“I’m pregnant.”

She wasn’t particularly _proud_ of using her baby as leverage, but she knew it would help her cause. She knew Ned wouldn’t turn her away now. The Wolves looked after each other, called themselves a pack, and their dedication to family was the most famous thing about them.

His eyes widened in a way that would have been comical, had the situation been different. She watched the movement of his throat as he swallowed once, twice, and got himself under control.

“It’s Jon’s,” she added after a beat.

“Aye, I got that, thank you,” Ned bit out, a muscle in his cheek twitching, “ _gods,_ my bloody children…”

He sighed, wiping a hand over his face and rubbing his stubbled jaw. He looked tired, like a father who had six kids and didn’t know what to do with any of them. Perhaps he struggled with Bran’s reticence, so very different to his own, with Rickon’s wildness, Arya’s unpredictability, Robb’s touch of arrogance. He definitely struggled with Sansa, always had, and maybe Jon was the only one he thought he truly knew.

“I tried my best, you know?” he said eventually, his voice quiet and a little thin.

Daenerys stared at him, surprise coursing through her.

“You did an amazing job. Jon is a good man,” she said, “all your children are good. I’ve never met a smarter girl than Arya at her age. Bran seems incredibly well adjusted for what’s happened to him. I’ll admit, Robb and Sansa gave me a hard time, but I could tell it wasn’t blind hatred that you instilled in them. They were suspicious of an outsider, and with the nature of the Five Families, I get that. And Rickon… well, he really was an ideal hostage, he didn’t cry or anything.”

Against his better judgement, Ned laughed. It was a strange sound, a little huff of air blown out between his teeth and it didn’t quite crinkle the corners of his eyes but _still_ —Daenerys thought he should laugh more.

“Mr Stark, I love your son very much,” she said then, without a hint of hesitation because of all the things she wasn’t sure of anymore, she was sure of _that,_ “I didn’t plan to, I didn’t _want_ to—but it just happened. I’m not going anywhere, and I would really like us to be friends.”

Ned sighed, his eyes flickering to her flat belly.

“I suppose we’re family now.”

Her hand moved by instinct, covering her stomach. 

“In a sense.”

“And you’re definitely keeping it?”

The question was blunt but his voice wasn’t particularly harsh, so she didn’t take offence.

“Yes,” she said immediately, “I know the circumstances could be… cleaner… but all I’ve ever wanted is a family.”

He was quiet for a moment, introspective, before his tense shoulders folded in slightly.

“It's all Jon’s ever wanted too,” he said, “what I did with his mother… how I betrayed Catelyn… I know that weighs heavily on him. It’s the biggest regret of my life.”

He must have noticed the surprised expression on her face because he quickly continued.

“Not Jon himself,” he clarified, “I’m incredibly proud of him. He doesn’t ask and he doesn’t complain, but I know he carries the weight of my mistake. Don’t be offended, but I admit I would have preferred a northern woman for him, someone like Ros… but I’m glad he has you. I’m glad he’s found somewhere he can belong. I love him, Miss Targaryen. I would do anything to protect him.”

His voice was a little desperate, like he wanted her to believe him, but she already did. She could tell he loved his children, even if he was a little stoic and guarded and he didn’t always show it well. He wasn’t perfect, certainly flawed, but he was more forgiving, more willing to bend, than the other heads of the Five Families.

“So would I,” she said softly.

Even if they couldn’t agree on much, they could agree on that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to tell Jon next!
> 
> I know this chapter was heavy on the plot and thin on the smut, but hope that's okay. I haven't decided whether next chapter will be the last yet, I'll see where the mood takes me. Hope you're all keeping safe :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was a curious feeling, to know she would never be alone again, and Daenerys was determined to hold onto it — always.

* * *

  
Daenerys closed the door to Ned’s study, preparing herself with a heavy breath.

She rolled her shoulders and clicked her neck, told herself to be brave. She couldn’t predict what Jon would say, what he would do, when he found out he was going to be a father.

She didn’t know why she was so nervous; she knew he wouldn’t be angry or annoyed or sad. Whatever happened, he would take care of her, take care of _them._ She knew that much at least. He would be surprised, that’s for sure—but he was always so controlled, she didn’t know what that looked like.

With her hand behind her, still gripping the handle of Ned’s door, she rolled her eyes.

She just needed to do it.

She needed to rip the bandaid off, release the hurricane and hope it didn’t leave too much destruction in its wake.

A crash in the kitchen brought her back to reality and she heard the door open behind her.

“What was that?” Ned asked, his brows pulled into a heavy frown.

Daenerys just shook her head in response and followed him when he pushed past her and into the kitchen. Her eyes widened at the sight, at a crying Margaery and an anxious Robb, his hand wrapped around Catelyn Stark’s elbow. The cause of the crash lay at Catelyn’s feet in the form of a smashed plate. She was breathing heavily, her other hand on the kitchen counter, hunched over it. Jon stood in the corner, his arms folded, and the solemn expression on his face made Daenerys nervous.

“What’s going on here?” Ned’s voice boomed, filling the room. Daenerys moved towards Margaery by instinct, her expression soft. Margaery let out a little sob at the sight of her and pulled her into a fierce embrace. As she cried on her shoulder, Daenerys turned her attention to the scene unfolding in-front of her.

“Robb?” Ned’s voice echoed her surprise, “I thought you were staying in the South for a while. What’s wrong?”

Robb let go of his mother’s arm and she wrapped both of them around her middle.

“Loras Tyrell is dead,” he said, his voice empty, and Margaery let out a little pained sound, “it was a car bomb. Margaery let him borrow—” he paused, as though he needed to choose his words carefully, not wanting to further upset his distraught wife, “—it was meant for us.”

Catelyn shook her head, her eyes screwing shut, like the idea of it was agony to her. 

Daenerys felt a wave of sorrow for her friend, rolling over her with a sickening force. She held her tighter and stroked her hair, her eyes connecting with Jon’s over her shoulder. He looked solemn and serious, his jaw locked tight.

“Fuck,” Ned breathed heatedly, running a hand over his face. Daenerys was struck by the strange realisation that she had never heard him swear before.

“It was the Lions,” Margaery spoke then, her voice filled with hatred as she let Daenerys go and straightened her back, “Cersei rang personally to check we were dead and when I — when I answered — she just — she _laughed_ and sent her condolences. She was mocking me.”

 _That bitch,_ Daenerys thought wildly, anger flaring in the pit of her gut.

“We’re going to Casterly Rock,” Robb cut to the chase, a fury that matched his wife's shining behind his eyes, “this has gone on long enough.”

“Ned, this is _madness_ ,” Catelyn spat, her tone bordering on desperate. Daenerys watched her fingers curl into the marbled counter, "make him _see_ — it’s too dangerous. I _cannot_ lose my son. I won’t.”

“No, you won’t,” Robb threw back, “I’ll be fine. They've already shot me once, I won’t let it happen again. I also won’t just stand here and let them threaten my family, my wife. I’m going, mother. Whether you like it or not. Come on, Jon. Theon’s meeting us there.”

He tipped his chin and Jon unfolded his arms, returning them to his side.

Daenerys took a step forward, panicking slightly. She wouldn’t ask him not to go, wouldn’t ask him to stay, it wouldn’t be fair. But she worried for him, so much it made her feel sick.

“I’m coming too,” Margaery insisted, furiously wiping the tears from her flushed cheeks.

Robb’s response was smooth and immediate.

“No, you’re not.”

Anger flared behind her eyes.

“He was my _brother,_ ” she insisted passionately, the devastation on her face still clear to see, “I’m not sitting here useless, a fragile little rose, while the _men_ fight my battles for me.”

“It has nothing to do with that,” Robb shook his head, his tone slightly softer, “we have it covered, there’s no need for you to put yourself at risk too. The Tyrells have lost too much, my love. You need to stay safe.”

Daenerys took a step forward. “But I—”

Ned spoke then, shutting down her insistence that she wanted to come too before she could make it.

“Robb’s right, Margaery. You’re the future of your family. And _you_ —” he turned to Daenerys, wearing an expression only she could read. It was heavy and poignant, saying more than words could, “—you have other responsibilities you need to consider.”

He was talking about her baby, the fact that she had someone who was dependent on her, another person to consider before she ran into a hail of bullets. She stood back and nodded, her hand covering her stomach instinctively.

They were rushing out of the door before she could say anything else, a flurry of suits and smoke and the click of guns. Catelyn shook her head and let the first tears fall, pushing past them all with a barely restrained sob.

Then it was just Daenerys and Jon and he took her face in his hands.

He placed a kiss on her forehead, an unspoken promise that he would come back, and she closed her eyes, her hands curling around his wrists.

She thought about not telling him.

She could let him go with a clear head, keep it to herself so that when he came back to her, he could process it properly. She didn’t want it to distract him, to play on his mind, in-case he made a stupid mistake.

But _then_ —

What if something terrible happened and she never saw him again? What if he left her behind, alone in the world without him? What if this was really it and by tomorrow, he'd be gone and he never even knew what he'd given her?

She wanted him to know; he _deserved_ to know.

She just _said it._

“Jon, I’m pregnant.”

She felt him stiffen.

For one solitary moment, it was as if the world had paused on its axis. Time stood still, suspended in the air until there was no Five Families, no feud, no baby.

There was only him.

Slowly, he drew back, his hands still cradling her face.

He stared at her, his expression unreadable, and she watched the movement of his Adam’s apple as he swallowed. The atmosphere thinned between them as his hands dropped to hover mid-air. She watched his guarded face with an intensity that bordered on desperate as he softly laid his hands over her flat stomach.

The gesture was achingly gentle, almost curious, and she waited to see what he would do next.

Her breath caught and her gaze flickered from his eyes to his hand and back again—and she’d never seen him _smile_ like that before.

It was _blinding_ , beautiful—all white teeth and crinkled eyes—and it brought tears to her own.

“ _Jon!”_

Robb’s voice barked from outside the door, angry and urgent, and Jon’s eyes fell shut.

“We’ll talk,” he promised simply, his voice quiet, and he leaned in to give her a gentle kiss.

She kissed him back, her hands travelling to his face, feeling the grit of his beard under her palms. They didn’t need to say the words—the kiss was _I love you, thank you_ and _I’ll come home_ all wrapped up in their mouths.

He leaned his forehead against hers for a moment before he let her go.

She watched him leave with a heavy heart, an ache where his hands once were.  
  


* * *

  
“You should drink something, darling,” Catelyn said softly, placing a glass of water on the table and pushing it towards Margaery.

She shook her head, her tears long dried up.

“Does it ever get any easier?” she asked quietly.

After-all, her marriage to Robb was still very new, but Catelyn had been a mob wife for many years. 

She didn’t lie.

“No,” she said, “I’m afraid it doesn’t. The worry never goes away. You wash the blood from his clothes and you fear for him every day—and then your children come along and you fear for them even more. You just… learn to live with it.”

“I don’t know if I can.”

“You don’t have a choice.”

“We always have a choice,” Margaery insisted.

Catelyn shook her head, a soft, sad smile curling her lips. “Do you love my son?”

Margaery’s reply was instant, fiery. “More than anything.”

“Then you do not.”

Margaery closed her eyes, defeated, and Daenerys understood. She understood because she never had a choice either. They loved who they loved—despite who they were, in part _because_ of who they were. She was in love with Jon, as Margaery was in love with Robb.

They loved them so completely, so intensely, they couldn’t just walk away.

But now Margaery had lost her brother, just as Daenerys had lost hers. The difference was Loras Tyrell had been good. He didn’t deserve to die.

“It’s my fault,” Margaery sobbed suddenly, a fresh wave of grief hitting her, “his bike broke down, he just needed a ride. I—I could have _given_ him a ride or let him borrow a different car, I just—Robb’s was _there_ and I thought it would be okay, but it _wasn’t_ and now he’s dead.”

From where they sat across the table, Sansa and Arya pursed their lips, solemn expressions on their faces.

Daenerys laid her hand over hers on the table, giving it a little squeeze.

“It’s not your fault, Margaery,” she whispered, “none of this is your fault. This was Cersei. She’ll get what’s coming to her.”

“She’s weak,” Arya spoke then, her voice quiet, “now she’s lost the Baratheons, she’ll be weaker still.”

They all stared at her, waiting for her to elaborate. Margaery clearly already knew and she laid her head in her hands, quiet sobs wracking her body.

“Renly Baratheon was in the car too,” Arya said, “he and Stannis were never close apparently — but blood is blood and he’s furious.”

The atmosphere thinned, burning white hot and awkward, and they all stayed silent. They knew Gendry was Arya’s source, that she had probably called him as soon as the news broke, but it wasn’t the time to bring it up. She already knew how her brothers felt about it and Daenerys couldn’t judge, not if she felt for him the way she felt for Jon.

The younger sister cleared her throat awkwardly, lifting herself off the chair so she could dig into her back pocket. She pulled a packet of cigarettes out and tossed them on the table.

“I think we need something a little stronger to calm our nerves,” she arched a brow to her mother before Catelyn could protest, gesturing towards the glasses of water she’d handed out. Catelyn moved over to wash some dishes in a feeble attempt at distancing herself.

Arya bypassed Sansa to hold the packet out to them. Margaery took one gratefully, holding it between her teeth as Arya grabbed her lighter too and engulfed the end in a flame. Margaery sat back, closing her eyes and breathing in the smoke. Some of the tension relaxed in her shoulders and purely by instinct, Daenerys pulled a cigarette out too.

It was Sansa’s cough and arched brow that brought her back to reality.

She pushed the cigarette back in and shook her head. She supposed she’d have to get used to that now.

“Not for me, thanks.”

Margaery’s brows pulled into a frown.

“I’ve never seen you say no to a smoke.”

“Prefer a drink?” Arya asked casually, leaning back in the chair slightly to open one of the cupboards, “we’ve got scotch, whiskey, wine—”

“No, no drink,” Daenerys shook her head, “thank you.”

Margaery stared at her, her frown intensifying before the lightbulb went off behind her eyes.

“Are you _pregnant_?”

“ _What_?” Arya gasped, her expression quickly morphing from surprise into excitement.

It didn’t feel appropriate to smile but Daenerys couldn’t help it, her lips twitching slightly as she gave a little shrug.

“I only found out today. I haven’t even been to the doctor’s yet.”

Margaery lifted herself from the chair, rushing over to her to give her a hug.

“Oh Dany,” she sighed into her hair, her grip tightening, “I’m so happy for you.”

Daenerys closed her eyes against her friend’s embrace. Margaery knew better than anyone how desperately she’d always wanted a family, wanted to find her place in the world. She knew what a child would mean to her and she was willing to put aside her grief for a moment to share in her happiness.

The only thing ruining it was Catelyn’s sour expression.

Daenerys could see her, standing at the sink and scrubbing a plate long clean. When Sansa and Arya began talking about what a good father Jon was going to be, Daenerys noticed Catelyn roll her eyes.

“Do you have something to say, Mrs Stark?”

Catelyn paused at Daenerys’ sharp tone, her back stiffening.

“It’s just all very reckless, if you ask me,” she muttered.

Sansa folded her hands on top of the table, a displeased expression pinching the corners of her mouth. Arya was more openly annoyed, staring at her mother with a furrowed brow. Daenerys’ gut reaction, one of fiery anger, burned on the tip of her tongue but she bit it back.

“But then I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised,” Catelyn was continuing, her tone snooty, as she dropped the plate in the sink with a clang, “bastards can’t control themselves, it’s in their nature. Should have known he’d be the first to procreate.”

Daenerys felt her anger bubble but Sansa was speaking before she could.

“Actually mother, _I_ was the first,” she pointed out, arching a perfect brow, “or have you forgotten that in your blind hatred?”

Catelyn turned around, her back against the sink, and her expression was bitter and sour.

“ _You’re_ defending him?” she barked out a harsh laugh, _“you_?”

Sansa bristled slightly, a mixture of annoyance and guilt flashing over her features.

“Yes, because I’ve grown up,” she insisted heatedly, “I’m not going to treat Jon badly anymore just to please you. To appease you. It’s not fair to blame him for what Daddy did.”

Catelyn’s anger intensified, her defences flying up, and her soapy hands curled into the sink behind her.

“Don’t speak to me that way, Sansa. I am still your mother,” she bit out, her tone stern, “I’ve let him stay here all these years, haven’t I? I will treat him any way I like. He is _not_ my son. He never was and he never will be. Good luck to you, Miss Targaryen, but I wouldn’t expect much. Bastards are born of lust and deceit, it’s in his nature. A leopard can’t change its spots.”

Daenerys stared at her in disbelief, sadness and anger fighting for precedence inside her.

She remembered all the conversations she’d had with Jon about her, normally when they were wrapped up in bed, cloaked in the protective shroud of darkness. They were few and far between, but every time he had opened up, she could tell the topic was painful for him. He’d told her about having to wait outside the room when Sansa was born — how Robb was allowed to see her and hold her and love her like a brother should, but Jon had to watch from the doorway, desperately jealous of this tiny sprawling thing with red hair and Tully blue eyes.

He’d told her how if Rickon or Bran broke something, she would just laugh it off and ruffle their hair, but if he did it, he would be sent to bed without supper. He told her how much it hurt every time he heard her tell someone she had five children, or wouldn’t let him in the family photos, or shoved the drawings he brought home from school in a drawer rather than displaying them on the fridge next to the others. He had admitted a tiny part of him resented Ned sometimes, that he loved his father and was grateful for him, but he wished he’d done more.

He always shook it off with a tiny smile and an insistence that he was lucky. She wasn’t cruel, he would say, just cold and indifferent — but Daenerys thought that was very cruel indeed.

“Mrs Stark, I respect that this is your house,” she started quietly, “so I’ll keep it brief. Jon is more than his parentage. He’s kind and clever and the best man I’ve ever known. The way you treat him is wrong. What is his crime? Being born to a mother he doesn’t even remember? The way I see it, _he’s_ the one who should resent _you —_ but the sad thing is, he doesn’t. He’s still _desperate_ for your affection. He would do anything for you and you don’t even care. And maybe I shouldn’t be saying all this, but he’s not going to, so I have to. I hope he _doesn’t_ change his spots, because I think he’s pretty perfect the way he is.”

Catelyn looked stunned, a mixture of emotions passing over her face before she sniffed and walked out of the kitchen, her jaw clenched in stubborn refusal.

“That was awesome,” Arya insisted, leaning back in her chair, “you’re awesome.”

Daenerys’ smile was tight, her body stiff and pulled taut with annoyance. She sat back too, tried to forget, and waited for them to come home.  
  


* * *

  
Daenerys was pacing, burning a hole in the carpet, when the front door slammed open.

She rushed out of the room to see Ned and Robb carrying someone, blood covering their clothes, and her heart dropped to her stomach.

She stood at the top of the stairs, frozen in fear. As they carried the man into the kitchen, she couldn’t see his face and terror welled in her throat.

When Jon followed through the door after them, clutching the car keys in his hand, she finally let out the breath she didn’t realise she was holding.

She flew down the stairs and saw that the bleeding man was Theon.

She was grateful it wasn’t Jon but _still_ — she wasn’t exactly relieved.

She had grown to care for Theon, to trust him like a friend — a substitute brother even.

Jon touched her waist as she reached them, pulling her into his side as they followed them into the kitchen.

“Is he okay?”

It was a stupid question. He was writhing in pain on the kitchen table, his teeth gritted and blood seeping through his shirt. From where she was pressed into him, she could feel the steel of Jon’s gun digging into her hip.

“No,” he answered honestly as Catelyn rushed past and began wringing out a cloth in the sink. Her movements were so practiced, it made Daenerys ache. It clearly wasn't her first time and it was another reminder of the harsh reality of this world, what you had to deal with when you loved one of these men.

“Hey, Daenerys,” he grunted out when he saw her, his eyes flashing with recognition. She moved over to him, gently taking his hand while Ned cut the shirt from his body and pulled his belt out of the loops. He went to place it between Theon’s teeth so he could bite down on the leather but Theon jerked his head away. He wanted to say something.

“Congrats,” he winced out, his voice dry and hoarse, “Jon told me about the baby.”

Her eyes widened, her gaze darting to Jon who looked rather sheepish. He shrugged a little, his hand rising to rub the back of his neck. She found it sweet that Jon had told him already, had clearly not been able to keep it in, and she pursed her lips, giving Theon a gentle smile.

“Thank you,” she said sincerely, “now just relax and focus on getting better, okay? Because I’m going to need your help.”

“Don’t know anything about kids,” he mumbled.

She almost laughed because she didn’t either and she was pretty sure Jon knew even less.

Ned grumbled something like _no time for this_ and shoved the belt into Theon’s mouth. Then he started to dig the bullet out, aided by Robb who held him down.

Theon’s scream was muffled by the leather but she still heard it, agonised and deep.

She registered Jon taking the crook of her elbow, gently pulling her out of the kitchen. He entwined their fingers and wordlessly walked them upstairs. Then he closed the door and they were finally alone.

She let herself look at him, her eyes drifting over some cuts on his face and the smear of blood on his cheek. She couldn’t linger on it because his hands were back to her stomach, his eyes dark and inquisitive.

“You’re really…?” his voice was quiet and the word seemed to lodge in his throat, too momentous. 

“Yes,” she said, her hands coming to cover his own on her belly, “I have your child inside me.”

He stared at her for a beat before he shook his head in disbelief and then he was smiling and she’d never heard him _laugh_ like that either.

He dropped to his knees before her, his hands curling around the backs of her thighs.

He laid his forehead against her tummy, placing a gentle kiss there before laying his cheek against it. She swallowed past the lump in her throat, a stinging sensation behind her eyes.

“You’re not angry?”

“ _Angry_?” his voice was muffled but she could still hear the disbelief in it, “are you kidding?”

She smiled, her fingers curling into his hair and stroking gently.

“Do you want a boy or a girl?”

“I don’t care,” he murmured with another little laugh and it made her chest ache.

“As long as they’re happy and healthy?”

He nodded against her stomach, his hands stroking the backs of her thighs. “And strong like their Mama.”

She sighed. Theon was hurt and she was still engaged and the world was falling apart but she held onto him anyway, unquestionably, overwhelmingly, _completely_ in love.

He gave her stomach another kiss before he stood. She glanced down to see that some blood had smeared from his face onto her clothes and she touched her fingertips to his cheek.

“We should get you cleaned up,” she insisted, taking his hand and tugging him towards the en-suite bathroom, “come on.”

He grumbled his dissent; he didn’t like a fuss being made of him, but he closed his eyes and let her dab at his face with a damp cloth anyway. He leaned against the sink as she cleaned the blood away, gently swiping a cut over his eyebrow. He winced slightly, a flash of white teeth as he let out a little sharp hiss.

“What happened?”

He sighed, that characteristically shuttered expression passing over his features.

“Don’t lie to me, Jon,” she chastised before he had the chance, “we’re equals here, you don’t need to protect me.”

“I know,” he said quietly, “it was just — it wasn't good. Cersei's dead.”

Her hand paused mid-air, surprise coursing through her.

“Who did it?”

“Stannis Baratheon. He got there first.”

She nodded, surprisingly okay with the information, the loss of an enemy, and continued cleaning his face.

“Jaime Lannister wanted revenge. There was a fight, he’s the one who shot Theon — and Robb shot him. He’s dead too.”

“God,” she sighed, shaking her head slightly and placing the cloth down. His cuts no longer bled, but she could already see redness under his skin, blooms that would mottle into purple bruises come morning, “didn’t she have two more kids?”

“Myrcella and Tommen,” he nodded, “they seem good, not like her. They’ll be left to their uncle now, Tyrion. He doesn't seem all that bad, but I guess time will tell.”

She nodded, her reply dying on her tongue as he suddenly grabbed her hips and turned them around.

He hoisted her onto the counter and spread her legs, stepping between them.

“What are you doing?”

“Showing you how much I missed you,” he murmured into her neck, placing a sweet kiss there.

“You were only gone a few hours.”

“It felt different,” he insisted quietly, his hands tight and a little desperate on her hips, “I knew what I had to lose. I knew I had both of you to get back to.”

She looped her arms around his neck, dragging his gaze to hers.

“We’re not going anywhere.”

He nodded, his eyes shining slightly darker.

“You must never die,” he ordered suddenly, “you must always live.”

“Okay,” she made a promise she couldn’t possibly keep.

“Don’t go,” he begged, dropping a kiss on her shoulder.

“Never.”

“Stay.”

“Always.”

He brushed his mouth against her cheek before capturing her lips in a soft kiss.

She kissed him back, immediately swiping her tongue over his bottom lip and demanding entry because she’d missed him too. She’d missed this. She gave his bottom lip a little tug, revelling in the groan it ripped from his throat. Her hands flew to his belt buckle, quickly unbuckling it, frantic with the need to feel him inside her.

“Is it wrong to do this while Theon’s bleeding downstairs?” she gasped out, breaking away from his mouth. He trailed his mouth to her neck, planting hot, open mouthed kisses down the length of it.

“No,” he grumbled but didn’t elaborate, his hands pushing her dress up to expose her tanned thighs.

“Are you just saying that?”

“Yes.”

His fingers slipped under the hem, toying with the edge of her panties.

She screwed her eyes shut, arching her back and letting him tug her towards him so her ass was half off the counter.

“What if he dies?” she whispered brokenly, sadness shooting through her.

That made him pause.

“He won’t die.”

He sounded so sure but how could he be?

“How do you know?”

He laid his forehead on her shoulder and groaned.

“If he doesn’t, I’ll kill him myself,” he said dryly, his frustration evident in his touch and the bulge now pressing insistently against her heated core.

She breathed out a laugh, tipping her head back and allowing him access to her neck. She let her resistance fade, let herself believe him, because there was so much pain and death and darkness in their world, she wanted to drown herself in the light. In their love.

He pulled her panties down her legs, discarding them on the floor, a flash of pink lace against white tile.

Her hand pulled the belt from its loops, the clink as it hit the floor penetrating the heavy silence. Then she was unbuttoning his expensive trousers and slipping her hand inside. He grunted, his bottom lip rolling between his teeth as she flicked her thumb over the tip and spread the pre-cum that had gathered there down his hard length.

“We made a baby,” she whispered as she squeezed him, her voice filled with awe.

He chuckled, one hand curling into the counter next to her and the other cupping her face.

“Guess that pill was pretty pointless.”

“It’s crazy,” she breathed; the pill was meant to be over 99% effective, “we’re 1 in 100.”

His mouth twitched under his beard.

“Aye, that we are.”

She recognised the words for their intended depth and leaned in to kiss him. It started off gentle, just a slow movement of mouths, before his little grunts and groans spurred her on. She pumped his cock harder, felt it throb and grow in her hand, and tangled her tongue with his. The kiss grew desperate, messy — all tongues and clashing teeth — as he pulled her dress up until it pooled around her waist and tugged her closer still. He removed her hand to line himself up with her entrance.

The head of his weeping cock kissed her clit, their mixed juices slick and wet.

“Fuck me,” she whispered urgently, _“please._ ”

He covered her mouth with his as he slipped inside her.

“Like that?” he asked lowly, pushing in only to pull back out again, fucking her in slow, shallow thrusts.

“Yes,” she hissed, her wet cunt clenching around his length. His hands gripped her hips as he increased the pace, fucking her against the counter, the lewd slaps of flesh on flesh filling the air.

She spread her legs wider, drawing him deeper inside, before she crossed her ankles over his lower back. She held on to his neck, tangling her fingers in his curls, and let out little pants of pleasure.

He kissed her again as his hips snapped faster, his tongue licking inside her mouth. She could hardly focus on the kiss, the pleasure too blinding, and she had to give up, panting against his mouth instead. Their mouths brushed against each other, sliding hotly but not quite connecting, as his hand travelled between her thighs.

His thumb began to rub circles on her clit, his steely grey eyes focused on her face as he drew out her pleasure. Her mouth fell open as a gasp caught in her throat, the ache between her legs growing unbearable.

_“Jon.”_

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured against her lips, reading her body like a book, “you’re going to come, aren’t you?”

She nodded desperately, her brows pulled into a frown as she concentrated on reaching that peak.

She felt the coil in the pit of her stomach, the white hot pleasure, and focused on how good and hard his cock felt inside her. He hit the perfect spot, like it was meant to be, like he was made to fit and surround her just like this. His fingers worked diligently, rubbing her clit with just the right amount of pressure as he repeatedly filled her with his cock.

“Oh god,” she sobbed, teetering on the edge, needing a final push, “right there. Don’t stop.”

He growled his approval, withdrawing from her swollen cunt only to push back in to the hilt. He kept himself there, grinding his pelvis against her clit, the friction finally pushing her over the edge. She gasped as she came, her orgasm rocketing through her and causing wetness to gush over his length. 

A groan rumbled from his chest as he followed, his cock jerking as he coated her insides with cum.

She shuddered in his arms, her thighs gripping his hips as she trembled.

He panted against her neck as he came back down to earth too, his palms resting either side of her on the counter.

It was silent for a moment, comfortable and soft, before he placed a kiss on her forehead.

“Thank you,” his voice was so quiet, she almost didn’t hear it.

“For what?”

“For you,” he said before laying a soft hand on her stomach, “for my son or my daughter. You’ve given me everything I’ve ever wanted.”

An ache erupted in her chest, spreading outwards until she could barely breathe, because he’d done that for her too. It was all they ever wanted. To be loved, to be wanted, to find their place in the world and to be enough.

“A family,” she said.

He nodded and kissed her again.

It was a curious feeling, to know she would never be alone again, and Daenerys was determined to hold onto it — _always_.  
  


* * *

  
Some time later, while Theon hobbled around and grimaced from the holes in his leg and side, they returned to the South.

Until he was needed in the North, until it was time to take over the family, Robb would stay with Margaery in Highgarden. It was something that grieved Catelyn, but Margaery wanted to be near Olenna, near the only family she had left, and she hated the cold. _A rose cannot grow in the snow_ , she had mused, and Robb just wanted to be where she was.

Daenerys didn’t belong in the North either, had an entire empire to build, and her place was in the South. As time went by, winter merging into spring, Jon tried to grow accustomed to it. He was a wolf with ice in his veins, and it was far too hot for him, but he would persevere.

Once she had finalised the terms of her deal with Ned Stark, a hefty loan in return for her future support, she arranged meetings with Oberyn in Dorne and Drogo on the banks of Blackwater Bay.

Oberyn was easy to charm. He was charming himself, and he had never held her accountable for Rhaegar’s actions. He was more progressive than the leaders of the Five Families, more able to differentiate a sister from her brother, a father from his son. He didn’t hold onto archaic notions of loyalty to ancestors long past. His main grievance was with the Lions and with them weakened and exposed, he was happy to pledge his support to the Dragons. He welcomed her new rule, told her he’d never cared for Viserys, and they pledged to support each other when necessary. 

The meeting with Drogo was perfunctory and short. She didn’t ask but she didn’t quite demand — it was resigned to some kind of world in-between. She laid her diamond ring in his massive palm and gently closed his fingers over it.

“I think you and I both know it would never have worked between us,” she said gently, her hand tiny and swamped in his.

His expression was solemn and grim but he nodded.

“I haven’t forgotten what you want,” she insisted, “I won’t marry you, but I don’t want to be known as someone who breaks their promises.”

He waited for her to continue, his face characteristically stony and gruff.

“I’ve secured a rather large amount of money,” she started, gesturing behind her to Theon. She beckoned him forward and he followed her signal, walking towards them with a slight limp from where his bullet wound had never quite healed.

Once he stood next to her, he lifted the briefcase in his hand and opened it with a click of the latch.

Drogo’s eyes widened at the sea of green in-front of him. Daenerys hazarded a guess that he’d never seen so much money.

“It’s yours,” she said simply, “as well as access to trade routes in Dorne. You’ll certainly be the richest man in Essos.”

He slowly took the briefcase and Daenerys waited with bated breath for him to say _something,_ anything.

“Fine,” he barked eventually.

She paused, expecting him to elaborate.

“Fine?”

“This acceptable,” he grunted before his eyes drifted down to the swell of her growing belly, “no wedding anyway. Dothraki do not raise another man’s child.”

His frown deepened, a look of disgust sweeping over his features, and Daenerys fought to keep her expression impassive.

“Farewell then, Drogo,” she said smoothly, one hand coming to curve over her stomach protectively, “I wish you only the best.”

He nodded curtly before turning on his heel, out of her life for now and back across the Narrow Sea.

She watched him go before turning to Theon.

She rolled her eyes at his smirk and looped her arm through his elbow.

“Come on,” she insisted, leaning her body into his with a playful nudge, “let’s go home.”

_Home._

Where she had people who cared about her and men who were loyal and where Jon was painting the nursery. She smiled because she knew what home meant now, knew it was finally a place where she was happy and safe and loved.

She was exactly where she was supposed to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I can't believe it's the end! 
> 
> I thought about killing Theon but I just couldn't do it, I love his and Dany's friendship too much. 
> 
> Thank you so much for sticking with me throughout this crazy experience and this crazy mafia world - a oneshot that turned into nearly 65,000 words, wtf! I don't want to promise anything but you should have an epilogue to look forwards to (if you're interested) as I do wanna write something fluffy with these two dealing with their kids and playing with Margaery and Robb's kids and eugh I'm getting misty eyed just thinking about it. 
> 
> I was also thinking of maybe doing the epilogue from Jon's POV - what do you think?
> 
> Thanks again for joining me on the ride and as always, stay safe everyone <3


	13. Epilogue - Jon's POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did someone order some tooth-rotting fluff?

* * *

  
“Come on, Rhaella,” Jon groaned as his daughter slipped through his fingers like an eel, “work with me here.”

Rhaella giggled as she ran from him, her tiny legs carrying her away. 

He sighed, running a tired hand over his face. He lifted himself from his haunches, straightening his back and clicking his shoulders. He liked to think of himself as a patient man but no-one tried that patience quite like his little girl. She was as stubborn as her mother, with her icy curls and fiery temper, and if it wasn’t for her Stark grey eyes, he would wonder if she’d inherited anything of his at all.

“Play, Daddy!” she babbled happily, picking up two dolls and clumsily bashing them together.

He winced at the chaos, walking over to her and gently taking the dolls from her hand. She scowled, a little pout on her lips as her brows drew into a frown.

“Not now, sweetheart,” he insisted softly, “we need to get you dressed.”

She stood up and brushed out the flare of her pink tutu. She was currently two months into a ballerina stage. She refused to wear anything other than the outfit, pumps and all, and Jon had been trying for thirty minutes to get her out of it and into the lavender bridesmaid's dress draped over his arm.

“I am dressed,” she insisted, that stubborn pout still on her lips.

Against his better judgement, his mouth twitched under his beard.

“Aunt Sansa picked a lovely dress for you to wear,” he tried to keep his voice level and serious, “you don’t want to upset her on her special day, do you?” 

Rhaella’s eyes flared with a guilt that he felt in his own gut. It was a cheap trick, appealing to his daughter’s kind nature, but the ceremony was in less than an hour and he was desperate.

“Fine, Daddy,” she heaved a dramatic sigh, lifting her arms up, “I’ll be good.”

Relief washed over him as he playfully scooped her up, holding her above his head instead. Her happy giggle flew straight to his chest, a tight ache that hadn’t receded since the day she was born.

“Gods, you’re so _big_ ,” he teased, feigning a grunt of exertion, “where did my little girl go?”

“I’m here,” she laughed delightedly.

“No, surely not. _My_ Rhae is only four and you’re so heavy!”

“I’m four!” she babbled, sounding proud of herself.

He bounced her a few more times, listening to her thrilled laughs before he held her to his chest. She looped her arms around his neck and held on tight. She was as affectionate as her mother too, soft and warm, and Jon let his eyes fall shut as they gently rocked from side to side.

Since he was a child, he had struggled to show his emotions—always so stoic, so restrained—but _this_ was easy. It always had been. He remembered holding her for the first time by an exhausted Daenerys’ hospital bed, his chest aching at the way she cried. It was only natural but he wanted it to stop, wanted to shield her from pain, from all the things that would hurt her. Now everything he did, he did for her and it was a scary, heady thing—to dedicate every day to another person.

He had loved her since she first opened her eyes on the world, and even before that. 

He loved her when she was making Daenerys sick in the morning, glowing her skin and rounding her belly. He loved her from the moment he knew she was coming, a tiny whisper of _Jon, I’m pregnant_ before he was torn away. He loved her while they read all the books they were supposed to read and on the nights he spoke to her through Daenerys’ stomach as she stroked his hair.

He never knew he could love anything the way he loved her.

He was a killer, a member of the mafia, of organised crime. He had blood on his hands. Yet he loved her in a way that was innocent and selfless—the one good thing he had done in his life. 

_“Figures,”_ Daenerys would sigh every time the girl jumped down from her hip and ran to him _, “I carry her for nine months… birth her kicking and screaming into the world… and she’s still her father’s little princess.”_

“Come on,” he murmured, kissing her once on the forehead before putting her down, “let’s get you dressed and take a picture for Mama.”

Daenerys would be here soon, meeting them at the church once she was finished with some last minute meetings, but she didn’t like to miss a thing. He was under strict orders to send her pictures every hour. Deep down, he was sure she just wanted to check he had dressed Rhaella properly, that she looked presentable for the ceremony. He would be offended if he had any idea what he was doing. 

As she finally grew pliant for him, the door to the connecting suite opened.

“Sorry Ben,” Jon called out without looking, “I’ll be there in a second, okay?”

When the little boy didn’t answer, Jon turned around, his hands still working to dress his daughter.

Benjen ‘Ben’ Stark was completely dressed, looking smart and well behaved and ridiculously cute in a full tuxedo. 

“Did you… put all that on yourself?” Jon asked his nephew, his brow arching in surprise.

“Yes, Uncle Jon. It was not a problem at all.”

Despite being four years old, Ben’s voice was smooth and practiced, the sort of clipped and lofty tone that only a child of Sansa’s could have.

As the little boy casually adjusted the sleeves of his jacket, Jon stared at him unblinkingly. He was like a little old man, unfailingly polite and well-mannered, and Daenerys thought he was hilarious but Jon was still unsure. He loved him, that went without saying, but he was just such a _strange_ kid.

“Daddy!” Rhaella was moaning in outrage, the sound muffled by fabric as he unceremoniously tugged the dress over her head. When her face appeared again, it was flushed and annoyed, and she blew a strand of hair from her face in a puff of air.

“Sorry,” he tried not to laugh as he fixed the plait Daenerys had painstakingly tied that morning.

“Do it myself,” Rhaella sniffed, batting his hand away. Jon held his hands up in mock surrender as he stood and turned to see the door opening.

Sansa and Margaery stood by the door, looking beautiful in an adult version of Rhaella’s lavender dress and an impeccable white gown.

“Ben, don’t you look smart!” Margaery cooed in an exaggerated gasp, beckoning the little boy over before she turned her gaze to Rhaella, “and Rhae, you look every inch a princess.”

Jon saw his daughter’s face light up in a grin as she walked over to Margaery.

“Thank you Margaery, that’s very kind,” Ben said in that haughty tone, walking to his mother instead.

Sansa’s face beamed into a proud smile as she picked him up, peppering his face with kisses. Jon thought it was a nice thing to see. His sister could be so serious, her face always etched into a prim and proper expression, it moved him to see her soften every time she saw her son. She loved him more than anything, he was her entire world, and for the first three years of his life, she was both mother and father to him. Harry Hardyng was still nowhere to be found, had never even met his son, and for a long time, it was just the two of them.

Until Theon came along.

Jon had been surprised when Sansa announced they were seeing each other—that they had found each other. He’d always known that Theon loved her, he’d loved her since they were kids, but he never expected Sansa to return his feelings. He had always imagined her with someone rich, someone from a well-to-do family with a powerful name. If he was honest, someone _like_ Harry Hardyng. The Greyjoy name didn’t mean much anymore and Theon didn’t have a penny to it.

Daenerys, on the other hand, hadn’t been surprised at all.

But then, she always had been smarter than he was.

 _“She’s not the girl you grew up with,”_ she had told him, a knowing glint in her eye _, “she’s changed, Jon. She doesn’t want to be rich or pampered or spoilt anymore. She wants to be happy. Theon will be good for her.”_

He would be. He would guard her with his life, Jon was sure of it. That was why he had no issue with his relationship with his little sister—nor did Robb.

Sansa smiled, bouncing Ben on her hip.

“Thank you again for agreeing to walk with me," she said softly.

He nodded, clasping his hands behind his back.

He felt Rhaella wrap her arms around his calf and he smiled down at her, one of his hands coming to stroke her head.

“You look beautiful, Sansa,” he told her because she did—and he bit his tongue to keep himself from mentioning how proud Ned would be.

She read his mind because her eyes suddenly went all misty and she swallowed.

“I wish Daddy were here.”

He nodded, a solemn expression sweeping over his face. They all thought they had more time. Their world was risky and small, danger around every corner, but in the end, it was a heart attack that had taken Ned Stark.

It was so _ordinary,_ so stupidly _normal._ One day he was there, and the next he just _wasn't,_ and they had all struggled to come to terms with it.

He never imagined he would be the one to walk Sansa down the aisle—but then, Robb was Theon’s best friend so it made sense that he would be best man, and that left Jon to take their father’s position. 

Sansa was different with him now, no longer wearing that special look of disdain she reserved only for him. Jon had a sneaking suspicion at least part of that was down to Daenerys, and it made him love her even more.

“The car’s ready,” Margaery said as Sansa put Ben down and Margaery took his hand. With her other one, she grabbed Rhaella’s, “come on, I’ll take the kids with me. I’d also like to check my husband is keeping my own alive.”

She referenced her twin boys, Edd named for Ned and Loras for her brother, and left him alone with Sansa.

“You ready?” he asked with an arched brow, extending his arm.

She smiled, took a breath, and touched her hand to her elaborate up-do.

“I’m ready,” she murmured and took his arm.  
  


* * *

  
“You may now kiss the bride.”

The church erupted into applause as Theon lifted Sansa’s veil and captured her lips in a gentle kiss.

Jon’s eyes flitted across the pews but through it all, something always dragged him back to his wife.

Her face was lit up in a bright smile as she stood next to Margaery and clapped for the happy couple. Her hair was half pulled back in a dragon pin, the other half tumbling in soft waves down her shoulders. She was wearing the same dress as Margaery and Arya and okay, he would admit he was a little biased, but he thought she looked the best in it.

Once the clapping stopped and Theon and Sansa turned to the guests, Daenerys' hands went back to Rhaella’s shoulders in-front of her and she clasped them gently and _there it was._ His entire world.

The new Mr and Mrs Greyjoy began to make their way down the aisle and as his eyes followed them, Jon was suddenly struck by the notion that everybody he loved was in the same room.

He missed Ned too.  
  


* * *

  
Jon was grateful again for his part in the wedding when it came to the best man’s speech.

Daenerys’ hand rested on his knee under the table as Robb charmed the room. Jon knew he would only have messed it up. It would have been all stiff and stilted and everyone would have known how uncomfortable he was. He could practically _see_ Arya’s little smirk, the way Theon would try to hold in his laugh and Daenerys would smile—heartbreakingly encouraging and proud of him anyway.

He knew because he remembered the speech he’d made at his own wedding, all stuttering and tongue tied in a way he never was. He had a reputation for being the calmest Stark, cool under pressure with unruffled feathers, and yet he seemed to fall apart when he had to talk about his feelings.

They’d married two months into Daenerys’ pregnancy, not seeing the point in wasting any time. Jon was glad it had been so quick, in part because Ned had still been here and Daenerys had a father figure to walk her down the aisle - it was more than Sansa and Arya would get. 

Mostly, he was glad because he didn’t want to waste one more day without her as his wife. 

As Robb told stories of the past, of how Theon would follow Sansa around like a lost puppy when they were kids and threaten every boy she ever dated when they grew into teens, Jon’s hand instinctively went to the bump under Daenerys' dress.

He gently stroked it, feeling her own hand cover his.

While they had found out about Rhaella early on, they decided not to find out the gender of this baby. They decided to wait. Now, with a curious ache in his chest and a fierce sense of anticipation, he couldn’t remember why.

“So what I’m trying to say…” Robb was finishing his speech, “…is I know we can be overprotective sometimes, and this family is kinda crazy, but we love you so much, Sans. I’m so happy you’re happy. And Theon? Well, you’ve always been my brother—it just feels good to make it official. To you guys.”

They all clinked their glasses, a cheers to the happy couple, and then Theon was standing.

He thanked everyone for coming, cracked a few jokes, and then launched into the main part.

“Sansa, I thought about ten different ways of writing this speech. I thought about all the different things I could say and all the ways I could say them—but when all is said and done, all that really matters is… I love you. I have loved you for as long as I’ve known you. And I forgive you for taking so long to come around.”

There were some mutters of laugher, and Catelyn was crying, and Arya was trying to make Rickon sit still and Jon thought the whole thing was just… _perfect._

“I know it’s been a long and hard journey. I know you’ve been hurt,” Theon’s hand came to gently grasp his wife's and she wiped a tear from her flushed cheek, “but I will spend the rest of my life helping you heal. I want to take care of you, you and Ben, because I love him just as much. So here’s to you both—thank you for the privilege of being your husband and his father.”

He tipped his champagne glass to her and there was a collective laugh as instead of lifting her own, she stood up and grabbed him, planting a fierce kiss on his lips. It was an act so unlike Sansa, not practiced at all.

She pulled back to look at him, her hand tenderly stroking the side of his face like they were the only two people in the room.

Jon turned to Daenerys and saw tears glittering on her cheeks.

She sniffed, wiping a tear away before she clapped along with everyone else.

The corner of Jon’s mouthed twitched.

“Look at you,” he laughed, “the ruthless, inimitable leader of the Dragons…”

“It’s the pregnancy hormones,” she insisted stubbornly.

He smirked, sitting back in the chair.

“Well, as long as you don’t start yelling at me about Ygritte,” he teased, remembering the last time her pregnancy had made her a little crazy. He had been more annoyed with himself than with her, for how sullen and withdrawn he had clearly been, because how he had felt for Ygritte paled in comparison to how he felt for her.

He had never loved anyone the way he loved Daenerys.

It wasn’t even close—and he hated that there was a time she doubted that.

She snorted, playfully swatting his chest. He caught her hand, his fingers curling around her slim wrist. Then, he entwined their fingers and brought the back of her hand to his mouth.

He laid a kiss there.

“I love you,” he said because it felt like a very important thing to say.

He watched her eyes soften.

“I love you,” she whispered back and it seared through him, just like the first time.  
  


* * *

  
“I used to do this with your Aunt Arya, you know.”

Rhaella stared up at him with wide eyes as she stood on his feet and he turned her around the room. She adored Arya, idolised her, and she loved it when the two of them were compared. She was annoyingly fond of her Uncle Gendry too, making it impossible for Jon to hang on to his preconceived notions of loyalty. He still found it hard to trust a Stag, but he supposed he could hardly judge, and the boy seemed to treat Arya well.

“Hey sweetie,” Daenerys appeared, her hand travelling to stroke Rhaella’s hair, “you wouldn’t happen to know where the twins are hiding, would you?”

In the corner, there was a flash of two brown heads as a cloth was pulled from a table, smashing glass onto the floor. The two brown heads giggled and disappeared in a chaotic flurry of limbs.

A guilty look swept over Rhaella’s features and she slowly shook her head.

His wife arched a perfect brow, looking unimpressed, and Rhaella shrunk under the gaze.

“Well, why don’t you go help Aunt Margaery find them?”

“Okay, Mama.”

She nodded, jumping off Jon’s feet to rush over to a very flustered Margaery. Jon could see Robb laughing, shaking his head slightly as he ran a hand over his face and his wife clearly told him to take it seriously. Edd and Loras were… high-spirited to say the least and Jon and Theon would often tease Robb for how he’d sprouted grey hairs earlier than they had.

“ _You’d have them too if you had two three year old boys_ _to deal with,_ ” he’d grumble and Jon would feel immensely smug, marvelling at what an intelligent and curious and well behaved daughter he had.

Much of Jon’s life had been defined by how jealous he was of Robb. When they were boys, Robb had been better at him than everything. Better at reading, better at firing a gun, better at charming girls… and sometimes he was so blind with jealousy, he picked fights with him for no reason.

But now, Robb had barely turned thirty and he was the head of the Stark dynasty and Jon wasn’t so jealous anymore. He knew the weight his brother carried on his shoulders, it was a weight his wife knew well, and he didn’t envy either of them.

As the band struck up a slow tune, Daenerys looped her arms around his neck. His own wrapped around her waist and he pulled her into his body. She was around four months gone now and her little bump curved against his stomach and he just looked at her.

She was so beautiful and so strong and so _his—_ all those childhood feelings of inadequacy that came with being a bastard flooded back and he still couldn’t quite wrap his head around it.

“What?” she laughed, bringing him back to reality. 

“Nothing,” he cleared his throat, “you look nice.”

 _You look nice,_ it was the same thing he’d said when he saw her at Robb’s wedding, all those years ago.

“Thanks,” she was smiling, probably remembering the same thing.

He still remembered the dress she’d been wearing, blood red and short and tight. He remembered her hair, curled the same way, a shock of ice against her tanned skin. He remembered how she felt, warm and soft and everything he’d been hungering for since that night a year before.

It was crazy—ridiculous really—how his want for her hadn’t faded at all.

How long had he wanted her, he wondered?

That blood-soaked evening, where she took him home and looked after him the way no-one ever had? The day she told him about Drogo and he felt this blinding sort of rage, that thing people called jealousy? The night she walked towards him in that smoky club, all tight black dress and sky high heels and confidence even higher? Before even then, as a young boy, unwanted and unloved and desperate for someone to want him and love him and think him enough? 

Some people would look for a sign, a moment to pinpoint as the one that finally brought them together. More romantic people than him would talk about the rings, would say their connection was formed the moment he placed that wolf around her neck.

His answer was more simple.

It was love.

If he was sure of anything, it was that he loved her and he always would. It was the truth he lived for, the religion he clung to while everyone else worshipped their idols and their gods.

“What are you thinking about?”

Her voice brought him back to earth.

“How much I love you,” he answered honestly, watching how surprise flashed over her features, “I should say it more often.”

She smiled, her fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“You say it plenty,” she insisted, “and I _know_ you, Jon. I don’t need you to say it all the time because you show me everyday. You’re a wonderful husband and father.”

He pulled her in closer as they slowly moved to the beat.

“How were your meetings?” he asked.

She shrugged.

“Fine. Dorne’s bringing in a lot of business and apparently there’s a faction across the Narrow Sea that could be of use to me. Some military group in Slaver’s Bay called the Unsullied,” she gave another shrug and shook her head slightly, “but I don’t want to talk about business. How was walking Sansa down the aisle?”

He didn’t push, respecting her independence and knowing she would tell him what she needed to.

“I thought she was going to be sick at first,” his mouth twitched under his beard, “I’ve never seen her so nervous.”

“It was good practice for when you do it for Rhae someday.”

His mouth pinched at that, his nose scrunching slightly.

“Aye, someday in the future,” he grimaced, despising the idea, “someday in the way, way off... deep, deep distant future.” 

Daenerys laughed, her blue eyes sparkling.

“Gods, I feel sorry for anyone she brings home,” she rolled her eyes, “I’ll have to temper your caveman tendencies.”

“She’s my little girl,” he insisted, every inch as fierce as the wolf on his family’s crest, “that’ll never change. Just like this one.”

He laid a hand on her belly and almost immediately, his unborn child kicked under his palm.

His eyes widened, his gaze flitting from her face to her stomach and back again.

“She’s never done that before,” he whispered in awe.

Her face was soft, a small smile curling her lips.

“How do you know it’s a she?”

“Just do,” he shrugged, “I feel it.”

She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth.

“I have a confession to make.”

His dark eyes found hers, imploring her to continue.

“I _know_ we said we’d wait…” she started and he already didn’t like where this was going, “but… I _may_ have called Dr Luwin and asked what we were having…”

“Daenerys...” he practically whined, “don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.”

She pursed her lips, nodding her head.

“Alright.”

They danced in silence for a moment and he wasn’t going to say it—he was _not_ going to—but then…

“Okay, tell me.”

She looked surprised.

“But you were so sure...”

“Aye, I know but I changed my mind.”

She gave a heavy sigh, her own hand coming to cover his own.

Then, she looked up at him with a blinding smile and said—

“It’s a boy. I have your son inside me.”

The words reached into his chest, winding and squeezing tight like a vice around his heart. His throat felt thick with emotion and he slowly placed a hand over her chest, his thumb resting in the hollow of her throat while his fingers splayed across her collarbone.

“My son,” he repeated, the word sounding strange on his tongue.

Her eyes were slightly glassy and she nodded again, releasing a little laugh.

“Rhae’s going to be pissed.”

He echoed her reaction, knowing his daughter already hated being around three boys. She loved them all but she also said Edd was annoying and Loras was mean and Ben was just plain weird. She had spent hours in Daenerys’ lap, begging her bump to bring her a sister.

“Are you happy?” she asked suddenly, her eyes searching his face for a reaction.

He nearly laughed again because that didn’t quite cut it.

He pulled her in close, his voice a low growl into her ear. 

“I would like to take you back to our hotel room and show you just how _happy_ I am.”

He felt her shudder against him, the raspy little breath she let out, and _gods,_ he loved that sound. He loved her.

“That’s why I’m in this predicament in the first place.”

His mouth curved against her ear as he smiled.

“You’ll have to get used to it,” he murmured, “as you said, Rhae wants a sister and you know how much I hate disappointing her.”

She pulled back, cocking a brow.

“ _More_ kids?”

“Aye, more,” his mouth twisted into a lopsided smile, “I love seeing you grow with my babies.”

 _I think you like the idea of carrying my babies,_ he had said to her once.

“Alright Jon Snow,” she clicked her tongue, leaning in to give him a kiss, “let’s make Rhae a sister.”

He deepened the kiss, feeling her soft and warm and perfect against him. It had been a long journey, fraught with tension and pain and everything that was messy and hard and _wonderful_ about the world. He wouldn’t change a thing because it had brought him here, where he was happy and safe and loved.

He was exactly where he was supposed to be.


End file.
